I dream about days
on the roof.
Surrounded by wooded
scents.
Moss and mushrooms.
Tree bark and pine straw.

Our house sunk deep into
a mountain, with easy
access to the roof.
A place where I could
spend hours.

A house that was in complete
contrast with it’s surroundings.
Cold modern furniture.

It made me shiver to look at
a sofa with a rounded edge
and one arm on the other end.

Slick plastic and legs that were
skinny upside down triangles.

So, I stayed outside,
Winter and summer
in my favorite soft faded
jeans.

I thought about the enormous
rocks on the side of the mountain
and how they made me feel protected
and unseen by the world.

The vantage point from the peak
of the roof spread out a town before me.
Tiny roads, buildings, cars.
A town I could look at and
yet wasn’t a part of.

I was strange, artsy, withdrawn.
I didn’t like boys.
So I sat on the roof, or climbed
to the top of the mountain.

I spent time on certain massive
rocks and thought about life.
Thought about being an only
child and how I hated that.

I reached the top where the
water tower sat.
I looked down from the top
of the tower and remembered
summer camp.

I remembered the girls there
who liked me.
I fantasized about the iron beds
and iron water.

And songs that bounced
off of the river.