As a child,
the black tarp of the old well
a magical carpet
the branches overhead
switches or wishes,
I drifted between both.
As a child,
Satan was more real than Santa
patriarchs dressed all in red
appearing in my head or under my bed
flashlight and light switch,
I put my trust in both.
As a child,
I scribbled in the margins
highlighting the enlightening lines
rereading the verse of Shakespeare and Jesus,
which both held truth.
As a child,
I put on gazebo shows
voice amplified by acoustic air
sisters swirling to the time,
shouting stop and then go.
As a child,
I fell in love with the library
summer reading was a feasting
books like maps to new adventure,
mooring my mind but sailing my spirit.
As a child,
I camoflaged my character
hid behind bushels of belief
played possum with my problems,
kept secrets as well as falsehoods.
As a child,
I wrote amateur poetry
wobbly words in a notebook
pride poking against privacy
considering rhyme but rejecting form.
Happy to report
some traits don’t conform to timelines.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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