when it's that time of year
putting your ear to the heater
wondering if the house
still breathes;
crocuses bloom in the back of the lawn,
that part in the shade, the part where
two children used to kiss simply
because we lived side by side,
and we met in the middle,
and nothing more than that.
for most of my summers,
I used to lay on my back
alone in my room, listening to
books on tape, daydreaming up
a misty past in which I was
thumbelina.