All I Had Was the Back Yard

I would turn toward the swamp
and wonder what crawled
beneath the skunk cabbage,
and then belly under, survey.

I was the kind of child who flew
on a stump past the moon
to the other moon, whether it was
round or sharp as a garden shovel.

When rain sheeted the windows
I puddled in bare feet
across the driveway ocean
because the cloud-light held me.

I was the kind of child who jarred
inchworms with fireflies,
who collected earth and air,
took notes like Harriet the Spy.

When the pages were full
I buried them behind the stone
which was my second home.
I ate flowers for dessert.

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