Climbing the shadows of tree trunks to 
a heaven on potato rolls and sun dried knees.

I've been sleeping in the forest since I can remember.
My father had plucked me from a branch
and used a bushel of white peaches to make my 
body-- each fruit bullied and bruised each other
in the wooden crate. Their scars turned to sickly syrup 
where they used to be white and princess cheeked--
Their skin melted away into the soil of December--
each smelled each other decaying
like the bottom of wet socked shoes. Dying 
slick in each blood-clot red maple leaf
dislodged from the brains of morning storm 
brains for the trees-- 
I was seven gory-peach-pits old.
I was a hand full of a magenta hearts. 
I was seven gory-peach-pits old 
and I knew I could climb trees at least 
the height of a swing-set-- we all could climb
shadows back then and only trip once-- scrape
knees to get the best bandaids--
We grew from those scab-coated-stones. 
Fractured-- flutter-kicked our way through 
the soil until we could breathe in heavy-- 
coughed out the leaves and frost 
and spat the strands of thin worms from our noses-- 
shook free from nests knit of weed and root-- 
the foliage quilt that tried to keep us for herself. 
By the next year I had flourished into seven 
tooth-pick wristed trees. My shadow friends were all there too. 
Moved with me-- chased me-- mimicked my hands--
made puppets-shows of my elbows-- ate the cheese
of my potato roll pizzas while I was too
busy growing each of my seven necks--
They collected their softball visors 
and soccer shorts. Collected the stains from grass blood 
and pizza sauce. We ate pizza at anyone's birthday party
when we all turned seven trees tall at the same time.
They used the shadows of my trunks for picnics-- 
Strung together their yo-yos into hammocks--
built the limbs into rungs of ladders-- 
steps to each of Jupiter's moons-- 
the celestial orb islands on the creek-- 
stuck silk scarves in the ground as flags-- 
made a colony of wet socks in shoes 
and sun-dried knees on asphalt.
I saw myself there-- potato roll pizza in hand and
carcass of a gushing peach in the other-- I was
tall as each peach tree-- syrupy-bruised and fading brown
in the sun-- the caramelized child of another 
October to be born again in the swelling of seven
blushing peaches. When did we grow to big too be supported
by tree shadows? Did we forget our
friends who envelope the bed room at night--
they wait under the bed-- tossing pit pits
like yo-yos and counting the days till
we turn seven-trees tall again.