Surrounding me are honeysuckles,
and a tall orange tree.
Skipping to the pool,
and the way life used to be.
Gentle days in summer haze,
felt like everyday no matter what.
Walking along a cracked sidewalk,
searching through the houses,
imagining the lives that live there.
At the end of the walk I reached a cemetary,
and I didn't run in fear,
Back down to my grandmothers home,
and the saftey of her humble abode.
Upstairs was haunted by my nanny,
the kitchen was always packed with goodies.
The pool lied beyond the honeysuckle bushes,
and had sharks lying underneath.
The neighbor had a weird dog,
and was weird in general.
Always asking about the local cat,
and talking about her great myrtle.
Growing up was a torando,
yet these old houses grounded me,
In 1800's romantics,
and typical childhood antics.
Beauty and overanalyzation were never foreign,
Describing it feels like peeling an orange.
Rough, but worth it in the end.
To conclude the thoughts I have about this beautiful place,
I pick another orange,
and it falls on my face.