On good days my dreams are the blackberries
Hanging from a bush they cut down
Where the little kids used to go
Six years ago
To get their hands purple and chew nervously,
Fearing their parents might walk down that little path to see
Their kids had left the pool.

On bad days my dreams are the white squares of paper
We put to our lips to change
The aforementioned 'their' from an 'our.'
Hoping our parents don't walk the path again and connect
The size of our pupils to the
Purple of our ancient fingertips.

It's the same wind that knocked down the black-berry bush
That writes these words and holds these white squares
To lips. We had a good dream together
Not long ago.