I hope to inherit,
The long leafy arms
Of the tree.
We're related.
Rooted in Albemarle County.
Neighboring,
I hope to learn
The wisdom
Of the persimmon tree

My sticky fingers
Match the grape Popsicle sky.
I can see the vanilla swirls
From the porch
Plucking the skin from my feet.
I don't like shoes.

I swing through the yard.
The deer hate to be by someone
As restless as me.
But they didn't mind when I waved
From between the ajar curtain
Of the long window.
As I'm out I hear
Dad's “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”
In the gravel
Waiting for him to come
Carry me home

Honeysuckle month,
When the morels grow
Quivering near the trees
Grounding their roots
I am coming with green baskets
Full of their cousins

Even after the last of light faintly
Strikes onto the side of my world
Dad will take me out
To say good-night to my tree
Say good-night to what will always be me

Inside, staying up
I run my finger, scratching
Up and down
The crack in the wall
And I don't remember my dreams
Not in Albemarle County