That Spot By The Tall Oak

I find myself

going back to

the pile of dusty

dirt

just outback at

Mom-mom’s house;

that spot

by the

tall oak.

It really looked

deserted and not

quite capable

of holding grass

or giving life

to fallen acorns.

Dusty

dirt,

as

I said.

But,

I played

in it for

hours

on end;

or,

for moments

that seemed

like

hours

on

end.

And,

that dirt

is

still

in my me.

Today.

Here.

Sticks

planked over

holes

dug with bark

and

broken matchbox

cars caked with

dust

as if

they had

driven - 

full-sized -

through the

powdered silt

of memory

and

childhood abandon;

perched

upon imagination

that keeps the

world alive –

and full

of endless possibility.

Gnarled roots

rising and

falling just

enough

above the

surface to

be shaved

clean by the

pushmower

and time.

I can find

that

place

anytime,

anywhere,

as long

as I may

hold its place

in my me.

Giving me

escape to

a panoply

of mirth

I never knew

I would carry

all this

way

like the

palm full of

dusty dirt

that made me

seem to 

be and rise

to a sense

of sublime 

existence

as 

a

boy.