This poem is called Childhood's Den
and it's actually a reflection on when I was five years old
and the night my sister was born which you might not otherwise
gather.
Waking into excited night, I seek comfort
in the monthly magazines and overstuffed chair.
Staring into faces grown old, I wonder what will be disclosed.
The bookshelves, ceiling high in the dark
are steadied by the hard backed modern library collected
as a shield against time.
Framed by the window of their extinction,
a wooden stand supports an American dictionary
opened eternally to marquee
Impressionist print and Flemish medieval woodcut
found at a flea market sale serve as a European museum
for young eyes.
How enticing this comfortable room created to pay our bills
and balance every Saturday.
Home is our sacred space, eaves protecting against the coming
summer storm.
Adobe wall shoulder high divides us
from our neighbors mysteries.
Here is borne all adventure my small heart needs.
Palming, , catching aiming imagined spheres across a small
corner and scribbling the first aspirations of my fictional
life.