Childhood Memories

It was a bunch of mulch piles,

I think,

our fort. 

But perfect. 

We even built a bathroom,

and kept it freshly stocked with

leaf toilet paper. 

Sometimes,

the newspaper shed was unlocked.

We'd climb the 

mountain stack,

and slide to the bottom.

The ink,

long dry,

wouldn't stain our knees,

just drench the stale air with its smell. 

Once,

in the woods,

we just sat down and started digging.

We weren't pirates that day,

but still found a treasure horde:

old mason jars, chipped porcelain, leather shoes, a calcified stirrup.

We'd perfected how to climb 

their fences

without barbed wire snags. 

And we knew just how 

fast to run

through the field to still have time

to avoid the cow patties. 

At our creek,

we'd swing from the tree branches,

and catch tadpoles in the murky water.

At our river,

we'd slide off the rocks,

mermaids. 

© Miranda Hogan, 2013

At Our River
Photo by Tony Russell