An unfinished novel...

My twin, Roger, Mom, my sister, Judy, and me, toying with the cliff's edge at Porcupine Mountain, UP, Michigan.

Those were the days,
when life was so new,
and we were free,
whatever to do.

After breakfast,
before Mom could shout,
we' d slam the screen door,
on our way out.

The sky was blue,
the grass was green,
the world was our oyster,
in between.

There were snakes under rocks,
and flowers under trees,
a honey tinted morning,
with the buzzing of bees.

A stick was our sword,
a milkweed, our enemy.
We'd dispatch it with precision,
set bitter milk free.

There were always frogs,
down by the pond.
Butterflies and dragonflies,
at the wave of a wand.

And if we were lucky,
we'd see a skunk.
And keep our distance,
to avoid smelling punk.

I practiced hitting,
with our bat and a rock,
broke a Nash's rear window,
to my father's shock.

Set a building to smolder,
while smoking butts.
A police woman pulled us over,
making smoking for nuts.

I swam under water,
holding my breath.
Dove off the high board,
with no fear of death.

I'd take any dare,
my friends would throw,
I knocked them off easy,
like pins in a row.

Raking leaves in the fall,
we'd make a big pile,
savoring the musty odor,
as we rolled for a while.

In snow pants and a heavy coat,
we'd build a snow fort.
Throw snowballs like crazy,
until our earlobes hurt.

Those were the days,
but now they are gone.
Still those precious memories,
of childhood's days live on.

Copyright 2010 © Ronald W. Hull

8/13/10