like opening up the attic

i loved writing poetry. really loved. and if i was honest and actually made an attempt, i probably still do, but i'm not sure if my soul feels the need anymore. so i opened up an old email address from high school to find a whole folder full of my writing. this one dates back to 2002. 7 years ago this is what i was thinking one summer day.

barrington drive
my dad holds his shovel in one hand
and the balance of the world in the other

he looks at me and says

"it acts like it wants to rain"

and i smile
because i like the idea of
fresh dirt scattering into the
storm sewer for shelter

and like everything else
i think it acts like
it wants to do a lot of things

"that oughta be neat, kristyn"

and he points to the sky
before disappearing to the backyard

i'm confused
and contemplate hidden meanings
as i hear an airplane
move up the sky
playing hide and seek
with the sunset

(i've always wondered
what it would be like
to dive into the last moments
of something before it ran away)

maybe that's what he meant

to get away

and dusk is much too enchanting to miss
with it's hurricane blankets
plunging across the confetti bitten sky

i think of memories
and snow falling on the freeway
and the night glow of anticipation
and then his face

my knees fall asleep
and i search for fireflies
because i've gotten used to wanting things
that i know i won't get

and i think to myself

july is just enough
to make me want to breathe