Abaria

from the french, arbre, meaning tree, 

as in the maple in the front yard. 

we were lost in our own world then, 

the unending sputter of trains the backdrop

of our leafy palisade. the quiet after a storm. 

the blue plastic swing still swaying in the 

wind, abandoned. our elaborate plans, 

our enclave, abaria, frontyardia; we 

whispered to each other come alive at 

sunrise, sceptered melody of a wind-chime 

of sea-glass. & your shining eyes in the 

bouquet of ferns, the countless shades 

of green. when we made new worlds

with the stroke of a pencil. It’s someone 

else’s house now, someone else’s swing, 

porch, grass. I stroll past on the sidewalk, 

though it feels like I’m across a harbor, looking 

into life’s hazy silver slide, the bristling of light 

flooding day. the pages we read in those trees

our warmth seeping into the frozen december sky.