Do you remember
that old oak we climbed,
placed a row of boards
in its branches, and called it
The Tree House?
It stood at the edge
of our family’s woods,
on the rise near the road,
across from the dairy farm.
There we created and surveyed
a little world of our own
held tight in sturdy branches,
where breezes fluttered leaves,
and brought distilled scents
of pastured cows, fermented corn,
and freshly baled hay.
Grey Sparrow Journal 