Today's poem is by Gil Fagiani
Mom asked what kind of pie
I would like for my seventh birthday.
Blueberry, I said, and off I flew,
past the culvert that brought the brook
from under the street into my backyard,
past the stone wall marking the end of the road,
until I reached the fir and elm trees,
and smelled the odor of skunk cabbage.
Reaching the basin of the brook,
I surveyed the box turtles,
as still as the rocks they rested on,
the yellow heads of the leopard frogs,
the nest of baby black snakes.
A prince among my peers,
I spoke to them for hours,
using a dead sapling as my microphone.
I went home for dinner,
opened the front door.
Surprise! Happy Birthday!
I jumped back
like I'd stepped on a bee's nest.
Seated around a purple pie
were friends and classmates.
I shrank from them,
slipped out the back door
to the brook bed in the backyard,
fleeing through the culvert's mouth,
spider webs clinging to my face,
dampness swallowing me,
the echo of Mom's voice
no longer reaching my princedom.
Copyright © 2015 Gil Fagiani All rights reserved
from Stone Walls
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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