In a corner of our yard
lived an old black locust,
a thick, unclimbable beanstalk
I never remember as pretty.
Beneath a neighbor’s maple tree
I could lie on my back
and feel my ten-year-old life
working, breathing.
Sweeping my arms up
through the cool grass,
up above my head:  
inhale, I was alive;
down to my side,
exhale, I was dead;
sweeping them up again,
I was still alive.

Nothing lived under the locust:
not gardens,
not grass,
just a dry play-field of
dead thorny branches
and tiny, dirty, yellow leaves,
trained pitilessly
on companies of toy soldiers
ranging for fights—
detritus, then,
raked weekends into cemeteries
for green plastic men
who might have gladly
raised their arms,
surrendering
beneath a maple tree.

Gavin W Sisk
September 2020