childhood

when i was a boy (barefoot & sunstung)

i lived inside summers that never ended

golden barley taller than my head

mountains (taller still) rising against the sky

& the lake—cold, clear, waiting

mornings

the cows knew the way (i only followed)

to the end of the village, where the cemetery was

where the trough stood, stone-bellied & moss-throated

where the air smelled of dust & quiet

the old shepherd died (one day, just like that)

so the village took turns, two weeks at a time

that summer it was our turn (it was my turn)

every cow, every bell, every low & lumbering breath

i led them (or they led me)

six peaks, seven peaks, a sea of stone & sky

until midday, when the lake was waiting

(we swam, we lay, we dreamed)

until the sun told us it was time to go

other mornings

the cows to the end of the village, where the cemetery was

then the pigs (snuffling, gleeful)

then my friend—more brother than cousin

we chased ducks, climbed trees, fought the boys from the next village

then raked, then plowed, then learned the weight of the earth in our hands

& one day (because boys are full of want & wonder)

we heard the older ones whispering (something about a girl, a mystery, a legend)

& we, wild & foolish, wanted to know the truth

so we crept to her house (stone & shadow & secret)

& we whistled (not knowing why)

she stepped out (bucket swinging, sun in her hair)

we whistled again

& she saw us (really saw us)

then—broom in hand—

“you little rascals! i know you! i’ll tell your parents!”

& we ran (wind-legged, belly-shaking)

& hid under the bed & waited for the end of the world

but it never came

the summer stretched on (like all summers do)

the cows still knew the way home

the lake was still cold

& the mountains stood (forever, forever, forever)

in my memory