I used to live in paradise—a long,
low ranch house,
sheltered by the tangle of cottonwood trees
that lined the creek. But as with every Eden
We believed in the magic of that world down in the creek,
where the greenbrier curled
around trees and scratched
our legs and the water oak tipped lazily
over the stream as if in a constant half-state
between dreaming and awake.
We believed so fervently,
so completely,
that the trash tossed down
from the nearby overpass
became heavenly gifts—oil cans,
garbage bags,
tires,
empty cups,
all hidden among the scrubby willow oak.
We collected them like greedy misers.
pieces of glass in a discarded Ziploc bag,
and they shone so brightly
that we believed them
to be tiny pieces of falling star.
And in our desperate belief,
we made our paradise.