A home of brick and wood,
my bungalow
sitting on a
ravine below
where I played as a
child long ago.
I've tended the
leaves of grass
and
made my fort
“fit to entertain a travelling god”
on the forest floor
of my childhood's sod.
We made a trail
to the meadows
and made footholds in the trees.
We made dinner in the kitchen,
my dear friend climbed the 50
foot cedar, I watched him,
like a bird in the trees,
as free as a child could be.
As I looked at him he must have looked at me
for we both had a sense of infectious glee.
I knew what he could see,
he could see me in my bungalow,
50 feet below,
he could see the town of hills,
the farmers' fields,
the ravines and rivers,
the trails that we walked long ago.
My friend is now long gone,
across the ocean,
he took to the blue
of the sky and the sea.
Maybe he saw something more
from high in the tree,
something I couldn't see.
A part of me went with him,
up that tree, into the sky,
over the ocean,
and the waves of the sea.
I wish I climbed with him,
took to the air,
and the bodies of blue.
I wish I had
shared his view,
and climbed with him.
My friend,
Dear Benjamin,
where now are you?
