The old hose ran through it like a river,
creasing the meadow grass of the back-back yard,
where blooming wheat weed grew like last year's candles
and a butterfly took root on the smallest pale flower
weaving light into the movement of air.
I am little and climb on the clothes hamper
to see the Acacia tree,
for it is spring from the bathroom window
and the yellow is like a smudge of joy,
where caught within the plum's prolific fragrance
I clamor for the time of bare feet.
Was safe far upstairs hanging out there,
as if I could see the secrets
of dart of blond brother, with starched legs
and some old dusty car with a running-board,
posing there on the oil slick of the driveway.
As though from an old movie camera,
I watched what I'd captured there in mind
from a Sunday of a long-ago April perhaps,
where the creak of the porch swing,
the steady rhythm of it, like time itself,
is following me or has stopped long enough
for me to watch it again with grown-up eyes.