We went on a trip, inside and outside, to the place of my childhood.  From one coast to the other, across the continent so endless below the roaring, bumping jet.

The railroad ties my father placed as steps are still along the side of the hill.  My climbing tree has grown.  There are tiny handprints in the cement belonging to us years ago.  But everything else is gone: house, home, lilacs, elm tree out front, mother, father, family.  A parklike grassy hill dedicated to cauderized lifves.

Back again to the lush northwest, the early summer dawn birds bring me back to all I’ve stored inside me.  And another cycle of love dances in the trees.