Make Believe

These were the woods, behind the willows,
          Trees that comfort us like pillows.
These were the fields, beyond the flowers,
          Meadows weaving still, with showers.
Here’s the hole in the twisted wood
          Where we hid out, when we could.
The branches wave still in the trees,
          Where we hung out in the breeze.
We built a house here, in the past,
          That, like the landscape, didn’t last:
The house’s windows had to yield
          To other houses in the field.
And not such nice ones after all:
          Residential versions of a mall,
The mall which nicer stores pell-mell
          Disdained and mocked before they fell,
Their values, furniture, and kids,
          On the grass now, up for bids;
The cozy myths a child believes
          Burned in fall like piles of leaves:
That ethics win, and truths prevail,
          That millionaires end up in jail,
That parents are the Easter Bunny,
          That those who love you give you money,
Condemning friends to pantry shelves
          Who only help us help ourselves.
But the summer breezes persevere
          And a minute summons up a year
Behind the rectory and the church,
          Our youth reduced now to a birch,
Planted maybe to rewind
          The film that only we can find.

September 4th, 1996, Tippet Alley