In the quiet woods behind our house,
the ones developers swore
they would never cut down,
you and I made lop-sided tree houses
with our father’s nails and hammers,
then tore them down to try again.

We played with creatures from the fall swamp
till the summer dried it up,
and caught snakes in the tall grass.
Dirt quickly covered your jeans
and high tops, your baseball
shirt bore grass stains and hair, a hazel brown
fell into your wide eyes.
I bore the same completion,
but with a ponytail and braces.

That wood was ours.
Its shade held us, it’s dirt painted us.

The day you moved away, that first kiss
behind the blackberry bushes,
and a promise to come back.

Eleven years later
I still miss the wood,
but I miss you more.