Peace

In lucid memories I find still moments

that sparkle with wonder and life

as if they still breathe the same air

my youthful innocence once did.

It smells of cinnamon,

somehow still warm,

though the slice of apple chip cake,

that I sneak from my great grandmother's fridge,

is frozen.

I'm sure she knew;

the supply of parchment wrapped pieces never ran out,

baking in secret with small pink curlers in her hair.

It sounds of the giggles that sizzle

on hot summer drain covers,

my brother daring who could sit the longest,

in Super Soaked clothes.

It's the act of daydreaming

lying on red painted picnic tables,

tracing shapes in the clouds with invisible ink,

writing down dreams within the folds of my heart,

letting the summer equinox turn the lock,

placing the key in distant ocean waves.

It feels like home,

Skip-bo cards counted out with feverish determination,

sausage frying for Sunday morning gravy,

and sawdust, that smell of fresh cut projects

that clung to the air like hope,

reminding us we were all making

something,

riding bikes without handlebars

until the streetlights came on

and the ringing of an antique bell

called us home.