When I was a little boy it seems
the trees listened more to my stories
and the trees cared more about my
doing nothing than anyone else.

They played with the wind or in the wind
and listened to my stories with my
wide gestures and my wide eyes wide
because of the magic deep in the
roots of those trees in those days way back.

When I was a little boy it seems
driving a truck, a big yellow dump
truck was easy. Cutting down gravel
drives and up into the woods hauling
the twigs big yellow trucks haul. Driving

it on the kitchen table around
the milk and over spoons and off the
edge onto the floor. The floor sometimes
flat sometimes wobbly when the water
burst from the pipes under the sink when
it was cold outside and my dad was
shoveling snow that was snowing outside.

When I was a little boy it seems
wildflowers grew to teach me the
colors they forgot to put into
my orange crayola twelve pack.

Wildflowers breathed the same magic
from the same trees and the same roots
that my wide eyed boyishness did.