Long Away Lemonwood

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I remember my old house –

the hibiscus bushes that lined the street;

the stops on bike-rides to pick the neon flowers,

their long pistils like fingers to touch.


I can remember the vast living room,

with specs on the ceiling like distant stars.

We kept the worn-down couch for a while –

once familiar, then replaced.


I nearly remember when the hurricanes

stormed through. The loosely-shuttered

windows always blew open and woke us up;

my dad always came to shut them.


I barely remember the neighborhood –

the house across the street filled with mirrors;

the house next to ours a model in a trainset,

with a model town and model people for it.


I cannot remember the next tenants.

My parents said they only caused problems.

But the mother's son's left-behind green sweater

fit me perfectly – I still wear it.


I remember the steps along a narrow, sheltered

path of cut grass under powerlines close by –

a journey to some unknown destination.

I remember the path away from my old house.

Words From the Fragile SpireWhere stories live. Discover now