Herds of sea monsters licking at my toes and they tell me it's just seaweed dad handing me the fishing pole "3,2,1 jump!" Grandma sitting on the dock with me, her toes in the lake and she'd laugh and squeal so loudly it held a weight all its own it echoed, carries, drifted like pollen dust and covered my childhood coated the surface of the lake, settled among the crevasses of the fire pit and buried deep into the particles of my still damp towel unsure of how to care what day or time it is or whether my clothes are on right side out only the certainty that I will jump in the water and dry under the sun a gazillion times before the day's end deep green dew covered grass, sweet light green stems, the seeds and bruises of all the backyard fruit bruises on me too and splinters bee stings cuts and slippery band-aids that don't stand a chance against today's adventures when any and everything we wonder about is on our block walking running skipping distance in dirt and sap soaked flip flops til we abandon shoes altogether (unable to keep up with us) we go onward barefoot and raw like writing this all flowing into each other because it's the only honest way to do it