a poem a day for a year #84

by Amy Turn Sharp


I remember finishing Bridge to Terabithia
running full side ache sprint
to my father's back fields
Queen Anne's Lace waist high 
in the neglect
throwing myself on the bank of the creek crying
sobbing for the dead girl
for the boy
I can see the book beside of me in the grass
I never wanted my parents to see me cry
I never wanted them to know how sad I could be
over things that were not real 

my boys are entering the second doorway of childhood 
where the imagination arc juts
up up up
into the bright sun sky
and everything and nothing is real
and the woods are a kingdom
and rooms are cathedrals of thought
and no one hardly ever dies
but they fly fly fly 
with swords and knifes
into the thicket
and there is only good and bad
and not one shade of grey to be seen
until later
later when they slide down the rainbow
later when they shed their skin