Our mailbox stood on its wooden legs
under the dogwood tree;
Waiting for the mailman
to open its door,
With a letter of love
for me.
The daffodils sang
down beside the edge,
As the fat buzzy bees
drilled their homey holes
In the old gray porch on
the front of Gram's house,
When I lived down Woodwardville way.
The branch gurgled gayly
neath the walls of red clay,
Past the shuttle wheel
Pop Pop had crafted by hand.
His shed and the single engine
he built pulled the branch
Up the hill by the side of the road
to his thirsty field,
near our brown-shingled house.
We kids ventured out
after oatmeal and chocolate chips;
Disappearing til called for L U N C H.
That branch was our turf,
Our ocean, our sea,
Our jungle, and playhouse, and sky.
There were no rules, no parents,
no one to ask, "Why?"
It was OUR world,
And we were SO free.
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