| At eight spring knocked me out bowled me over gob- smacked me  every tree—redbud cherry, plum pear —a shock of color a blast of scent lifting me up |
At sixteen I lay with a boy naked in my mother’s bed  gold filtering through half- closed blinds no need for sex, every- thing said in a look a hunger an in- drawn breath |
At sixty- four I climb a green over- look throw myself down under a wanton magnolia wake all night stunned by stars |
Comments on Friendsjournal.org may be used in the Forum of the print magazine and may be edited for length and clarity.