Burnt Panes of Caramel Memory

Grass blades licked our feet

underneath the lemon tree.

The purple powder of sky,

blown from the old workbench

like sawdust.

You were six and I three,

enclosed in playhouse of fiberglass

splinters. A wood fence 

was the border of our country,

flag of kleenex symbolizing nothing.

Throw the lemons over the fence,

bombs to some cartoon enemy,

barely breaking gravity of the barricades.

Our arms were weak,

our laughs were big.

Yia Yia watching from garage

remembering her boys

at that age.

Reviews

[GingerPocky]

This poem paints a pleasant picture of two boys playing. A very nice read.

[Anthony J]

Thanks! It's actually about me and my sister, I left it pretty vague. I'm glad you enjoyed it!!

[GingerPocky]

Oh I see :)