my dream-like memories must have deceived me,

so young as I spent my days studying the sky 

            without thanking the coarse ground 

            that caresses my agile steps. 

for my real vision could be detailed on a blank canvas.

contemplating undertones–brown or red–of our distant barn.

I could convey a story– 

between a girl and the light, sprinkled gust of wind

or share the bond of those periwinkle flowers

and how they cause a dusk sky to remind me of home–

the skies I surveyed every day after my ham sandwich. 

or reveal that the lush, wise trees,

always kept my secrets in spring.

I slowly step forward 

behind the secret gate that dad built for me

to keep the rest of the world out. 

the fields that I’ve roamed a million times,

a place that I keep for myself.