Forsythia

Before bottle rockets,
slingshots, and rocks

Before brass knuckles,
knives, and nunchucks

There was forsythia.

The stark bush of bark stalks
shook off winter’s fury, nubs

punched into buds blistering like
bursting solar flares on a dying

star, casting death shadows and
dancing on a blood worm moon:

This was forsythia.

Seasons are a young
boy’s best friend. My

friends and I would
resurrect March,

strip the sticks bare
into swords, and spring

outside as swashbucklers.
Ricky picked D’Artagnan,

fast charmer; Joey was Athos,
dark knight quoting Blake at will.

I woke as Aramis,
transcending duality.

We sparred in the golden riot
of summer, sticks flashing

and slashing brambles
splashing through babbling

brooks, moats lined with
hundreds of eight foot swamp things.

“En garde” Joey yelled as we
parried and attacked, cutting down

the marsh monsters. Each riposte,
each feint a fearless symmetry;

each traverse and lunge
an urgent prayer

to stay lost in the bright,
dangerous moment.

Somewhere, the world waited with
its real blades, but we were boys

hell-bent on finding our treasure,
an old truck tire swing spinning

like a black sun over the water hole
that caught our faces and let them go

before we vanished into dusk home,
the cattails still whispering

our names long after we’d gone.