The concrete slopes downward, broken,
grass shooting through the cracks and
thorned branches from next door's roses
stretch across the path, snagging at my
tee shirt every time. It continues down
into the yard, past unused clothes lines
and unidentified grape vines, but I stop
before it evens out, left of the incline
where the well was dug. Where we watched
fireflies that one summer at the party
everyone still brings up now and then.
Where I shared pink ladies with Mazzy
before we got her brother and stopped
doting on her alone. Where we can see
the black lace trees, the raspberries,
the moss on the roof, the skeleton of
a deer who spent its last breath here,
in our yard. Where once we sat
shoulder to shoulder & dreamed.