Here, I bottle-feed
an orphaned lamb
for the farmer
next door. Feel
maternal at nine.
I dodge spider
webs in our garden
while picking tomatoes
to grind into Mom’s
Sunday dinner sauce.
I run beneath
our neighbor’s trellises.
The only girl. Play War
with Donny and Danny
among the vines.
Here, we fill our cheeks
with green grapes. Tart
juice bursts between teeth,
trickles down throats, while
we shoot toy machine guns.
Bratatat, bratatat, bratatat.
Here, at night,
we sit on the hill.
Grass damp, sky
full of stars. “Look,
there’s North Star, Big
Dipper, Little Dipper.”
We are little too.
It’s all we know.
World is fresh, new,
magical. It’s more
than enough.
Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash
