At the end of a rutted road, the shuttered farmhouse leans into the field. This is where, a child, I’d take off my shoes and breaststroke away the summers in a sea of red poppies, past island paradises toward the swollen moon and onward with a backstroke, entranced by blue skies. Sometimes, I’d sink to test the pebbly bottom with my feet. But mostly I’d float on my back and let the ruffles of water caress my face. On reaching the boulder as faraway as clouds from home, I’d climb to the top and listen.

glinting blue
in autumn’s evening light
a shoe buckle
half-hidden in dirt
I blow away the dust of time

soothing rattle
of a hand-painted pod
this treasure
stashed between rocks
reawakens a child’s rhyme