I love the lilac, lily, chrysanthemum flower garden

That lingers under the milk of a fresh moon, late

At night as it pours its light into our delicious

Spot, where we sit in piles of chocolate pudding.

The dirt sifts through our fingers like the day

We drove five hours to the beach and we

Lived in the sand, our fingers drinking its warmth

And thinking that we could dig a hole to China. 

I miss those days of floppy hats and large

Sunglasses and too much sunscreen because

Our mothers knew that the sun likes to leave 

Its mark, sort of like us. 

Remember the big maple tree we visited

After we had enough of hiding under the snack bar

Windowsill, where we carved our names

Like explorers who wanted everyone to know

We made this journey together; I miss that.

But I love our spot under this windowsill, 

In the dirt and company of the moon. I love 

The big maple tree and the porch and the wooden 

Swing that likes to sing out of tune. 

And what I love most of all is that after 

Eighty years,

You seem to love it too. 

— Christine Barba