I can’t remember if I had a wagon.

Maybe I could ask my mother-

but she doesn’t like remembering.

I know she buries a lot in her Tupperware

and when wetly, it’s like pushing

with my legs on the downward arc

on a swing. I can almost taste the dirt

of the playground. I can certainly hear

the silence of all the hours spent alone

carefully imagining what I would need

to carry with me to be a grownup:

blankets, paper, pencils, candy,

a sweater, books, tea, toothpaste,

rings, a hat, a camera, band aids,

and whatever would fit in my wagon,

if I had one. I have a house now

with all those things. I made sure

my children had a wagon.

I also have Tupperware and a tendency

to bury things I try not to remember.

I wonder if I pay enough attention

to the hope of sunsets and new blooms.

Maybe I could ask my daughter.

stretching like the creek

across miles

limbs achy and tired

.

a story pushing

against wind

in smallish circles

.

morning’s lonesome bird

sings “let go”

to a rolling mist

.

to land somewhere soft

listen to a slowing heart

wherever home is

Buffeted above the middle ring

like a trapeze artist,

she waits for his strong arms

to take her to a fantasy world,

but he’s pumping his arms

drinking coffee at a counter

thinking about the miracle of bacon.

Their plans coincide in greasy abandon.

the width around where my reality ends

is shaped like a birch tree

for better or worse;

the lumbering trunk

is my base

the wispy scraggly branches

are my reach

the roots- quiet, dark, and deep

are my only thoughts of place

.

the rest is sun and breezes

resting on the skin of my children

and the bones of my ancestors

the night squiggled

before my car lights

.

I gripped the wheel

loosely but with prayer

.

the same bit of road

has run the gamut of emotions

.

there was no redemption

among late spring roadkill

.

I thought I was almost there

but I don’t know where I’m going