The Way Back

One summer when we were eight my twin sister and I hiked back in pine hills where the brilliant blue skies whistled above shadows of hemlocks; where the north sides of hills hid June snow. We'd run away, but only she came back. I kept wandering among the shadows and burning heights. Winds lifted me to the top of a pine, it snagged me by my collar. As I fluttered there I saw how clouds were distant isthmuses, peninsulas, endless chains of islands. I struggled free and floated off. I have only recently returned to rummage through rubble foundations, to sift through ashes for my whittling knife, to whisk away dust from my first sketches of trees, to uncover old Dittos of elementary math problems. The ink has faded. All that remains are answers written in pencil I did not erase-- nothing else, and now I'm out of time. My skiff is moored loosely to the top of a pine, the moon is rounding the ridge, eventide has come, my lands are burning with blood of the Sun. The winds and sea are too unpredictable, there are only a few endless stars to guide me.