the yellow house

the juice box was mushy from the condensation
and crushed under the pressure of the straw
and the ants poured from the cracks in the sidewalk
up from the mountains of sand-
they charged the roly-poly bugs
and gathered around the cookie crumbs
and the fruit punch that dripped on the concrete steps,
while I captured crickets in a paper cup
and listened to them jumping-
spring into the side of the Dixie fortress
till they stopped,
and I feared they had run out of air.

I hung from the branches of the red maple
and dogwood trees
and wished I could sit there forever
with an orange.
I rolled down the hill in my pink and white sundress
now permanently grass-stained.
I planted the tulips.
I waited each year
for the same, reddish-pink to emerge from the ground.
They still bloom, by the lilacs
hydrangeas and roses
the crocuses, daffodils, irises, peonies-
all of them grow in the place they were planted
but I cannot see them.

I'm gone from that place.
I'm gone from the house and the yard and stairs.
They're there in my place now
and they see what I saw
and have no idea what all of it means.