Every afternoon the year

no garden was planted,

I climbed the breezy staircase

of a box elder tree in our backyard

away from voices bellowing

through kitchen screens,

rode thick green leaves

on zephyrs so strong and wide

one wrong swirl

would throw me perilously high,

higher than clouds into blue spaces,

so high I could imagine myself

anytime, anywhere beyond the world,

a hidden form no human hand

would ever strike again