Poem for Nearing 30 and Every Other Year

POEM FOR NEARING 30 AND EVERY OTHER YEAR

If you can pick your path through 

the brambles crowding out 

the narrow way down to the sinkhole,

you may—if you keep your eyes 

and other parts of you peeled—

stumble upon the footprints 

of the child who perpetually plays 

in the creek bed. He’s out of earshot,

meaning he won't come in

when you holler to get cleaned up 

for dinner, but he’s undoubtedly 

there, hiding in the foliage 

of every face, and you’ll know him 

when you see him by the way 

you find yourself humming lyrics

in a language you didn’t know you knew 

to the song he’s whistling, 

the melody that makes 

the earth ache for the green

behind green, and flowers.  

 

He sends sparrows skipping 

across the sky with a wry smile 

and a flick of his wrist, and long ago 

he stopped asking what it means 

and pushed back his desk, 

disregarded the test, and walked

through the gate of parted reeds,

chin purple with blackberries.

He’s baring himself now and looks

your way, as if inviting you

to join him. He doesn’t seem

to care that you can’t swim,

or that you left your floaties

at the house. Jump in!