This circle outlined in unmatching and broken stones,
filled in with grass
and rusty chains, rubber, rings, and a steep metal decline.
This hill
backed by branches
and comforted with bulbs of heavier greens.
That wooden crumbling,
peeling and beautiful,
the landmark of innocence
and playing pretend-
Of a hand's skills and father's hugs
Lost
in one day.
This patch of ever expanding bamboo shoots.
This mattress of dirt and fern.
This spattering of planted scarlet memories.
A keeper of childhood.
the Only place that makes my chest echo with the sound 
of a past now unattainable,
of Home.


(written November 14, 2009)