I am years from a child,
and months closer to winter.
In my place of roots I am still
a little girl running my hands across
wooden planks of an old garage,
playing hide and seek in its shadows,
and writing my name in dusty glass.
From the well of echoes near the rafters
the building replays my voice so it
can’t feel decay breaking it into absence.
On my dark nights of dismantling
my thoughts return to the broken structure
to reclaim my child’s bouquet of dandelions
I placed on a shelf so sunlight could have an altar.
In a perfect union of odd we listen
to the music only we can hear, journal
years and miles on starlight vellum,
and seek solace in connection.
©Susie Clevenger 2019