For years the school bus took the same path

past your grandmother’s house—just uphill from yours

 

each day the fields flickering past,

sometimes filled with corn,

autumn filled with hay bales

 

that long swinging arm of the sprinkler

tempting in the summer heat, always running

as we’d drive back to your house

on the way home from town

 

and one year, many years later

homesick, soul-wandering spied dandelions

 

growing, a trove near the treeline

and parked near the ditch to sit for a moment

with my thoughts all running rampant

 

when they turned to you, and childhood

how second grade best friends lived extremes

up and down the hill, across the trampoline

riding top speed on gravel roads

 

I used to ride my bike to you,

we lived close enough to each other

 

it was possible for my little body to pedal

itself there and back without exerting

what it can’t spend

 

what it doesn’t have, maybe still lacks

the dandelions far across the field

yellow bright mirage in the distance

I would walk there now if you’d meet me.

fur black, long, and growing gray

muted with time

 

as a kid, rolling on the carpet

you saw me often,

 

the familiar smell of allspice wafting from the kitchen.

 

Days were good on both sides of the glass:

 

access to grass, fallen leaves and stained wood,

a light drop from the deck,

then underneath the house

 

I can’t believe how long it’s been, how much I’ve grown

 

from the warmth of the fireplace

to the cold tile of the little cottage,

 

to wet green earth, to spider laden

undercarriage of the paddleboat,

 

months spent lost

in new smells

 in lake sand

woodchips

and flowerbed,

 

whole-cloth development houses

filled with laughter

good lighting

and comfort

 

at night, with the television low

in place

in your favorite chair,

where his favorite

hands wait

 

or at the edge of the bed asleep until ten

 

he always found his way back, each time,

fur black, matted, graying, and thin.