It's empty now,
big dark empty spaces,
except for where the light
comes through in shafts
between the splintered
wood and cracks
and holes we made
on hot summer days

punching through our
youthful exuberance
and wide-eyed innocence
laughing like screech owls
falling from the sky after
a night of too much shine

And it lingers,
the smell of purest sweat
from pores of exploration
singing out to cries of
wild abandonment
in the breeze that flutters
paisley and polka dots
with plaid and denim
patched in the worn
out spots

And it's there,
still after rainstorms
and duststorms and
windstorms and
the constant tug of war
between the scorching sun
and the balmy moon

The paint we brushed
on barely dry wood, with
old bristles bunched in
clumsy handles, wielded
by fresh beginnings

Weathered, seasoned,
chipped, peeling,
ingrained and
hanging on

Still there