Well

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.