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