Riverbottom
The huge oak is still there;
broken ladder nailed to its trunk,
remnants of rungs littered like spent
casings round its base. Someone
has placed a doorless refrigerator
there now too, filled with wayward
leaves and a half-full 40oz bottle.
Somehow this feels like an affront,
the whole thing an act of violence
against childhood itself. I snatch
the cheap bottle from its perch,
fully intent on hurling it against a
rock, when blithe laughter halts my arm.
My own children, too small to climb
the tree to the platform, swing from a
suspended rope, taking turns leaping
over an imagined lake of fire.
In an instant, I realize there is no
savagery here, only creation.
I pour the liquid slowly onto the ground, in remembrance of youth -
its foul odor whisked away by the
breeze, almost skipping down the
dusty path.
