Shades of Seventeen

by Heather Green

Lift me up—gently, smoothly—

into the ageless branches of the maple

and let me sit in the crook

of a minute so that for a time

I might again be seventeen—

barefoot—

peering through the leaves as an

afterthought of what might be beneath.

Bare headed—

strings of sun slipping through the dark;

shadows dancing on the bark, on my skin.

Empty headed—

the summer as absolute and eternal

as the security of home.

Lift me up—gently, smoothly—

tell me that I can fly, that Mondays

are a volley of windy April days,

of peaches, and infinite sky dripping blue.

Help me down—gently, smoothly—

walk with me, and let me remind you

what it means to be

barefoot and seventeen.