Describing one's youth and being the youngest of seven children.

Making wishes on
dandelion petals, falling softly
during spring.
Mud pies dug deep near the
root of the backyard tree,
where Mom hangs her endless line of
clothes, spewed through her old,
secondhand, Maytag ringer.
Sheets, towels, and other linens,
stringing from the side wall of the garage to
the corner of the screened-in porch,
flap waves of welcome
to all seven of us when we come
home from school.

Galloping dreams on the
backs of plastic horses
that sit contently
near the cement well.
Climbing mountains along
the brick ridges that
line the trash pit far
from the others who play
down the long alleyway,
trailing behind our make-believe fort,
encased within
the four room garage, holding
secrets of the past.
Chasing thought of the Old West
through the side yard
where I tie my imaginary horse
to the lilac bush that
towers in the corner of
the yard.
I sit and rest, becoming
intoxicated by the sweet smells
from above, and plan
my next move on the encroaching
cavalry, spotted just a few yards away.

These were the summers of
my youth, fondly remembered
and greatly missed, as I
was the master of my soul.
Knowing these memories
are selective,
I still prefer to think that life
beyond these years, filled
with work and routine,
is all created by the
inner dreams of my youth.
So I will continue making wishes on
dandelion petals that dance
so playfully along the way.