Spiral staircase to the lofted barn,
Mother retelling a yarn tale,
Sailing in a room with stabled bunk beds and swings.
Things hanging off the walls,
two small girls swinging from the high ceiling,
the peeling back of reality over a sea of imaginings.
Singing in the rain that stained the glass,
The passing of an afternoon too soon over.
Wet muted good byes, heavy sighs in mud puddles home.
The roaming sensation facing the dinner bell,
well it was a little bit of an escape.
To traipse up the curving stairs there,
down the wooden hall, to the room where those black bottomed swings
flew us out of the house, over the field,
high above the wanting to yield for anything,
bringing us closer than we ever knew to a bird sighted in flight.
Delights born in the early morn meetings,
sweet retreats that blend into two smiles
filed away forty years nearly.
Clearly April is turning into May,
and the way I am stretching my mind back to the beginnings,
the singing traits of long haired tweens
between a longed for scene once more, is for me to explore.
I go to comb my hair, brush out the snarls, the tangles, the angles of old age.
Clear a page to be nearer to the mirror of that moment spent soaring
Through imagined skies where truly we were there to fly.
Jodi Girouard 