Those snapshots

follow me into bed, leave me silent as

 

the afternoon I climbed a tree 

before my grandfather's house, settled

on the strongest branch

 

to ignore the chaos of a hundred family

members with Black Beauty;

 

 the pages and bright green leaves

around my head

are what I remember most

and also, how I felt,

 

how I feel years later 

 

when I dig

for peace and other

dangerous notions. 

 

Or, it’s the soft purr

of the engine driving the long

 

road into Vacherie, Louisiana

 

and it’s cloudless. It's watching 

the houses pass you by

 

while you tell ghost stories of the occupants

from the backseat.

It’s paying attention to the white lace trim

or dark blue shutters 

to sketch the memories

 

when there's two more hours before 

the alarm clock

 

and the dawn considers the morning

as early commuters attempt to 

distract us with present-day engines. 

 

This morning, a lone magnolia petal

floated from a tree before my apartment,

landed on the surface

of a puddle after the rainstorm passed. 

I watched a raindrop magnify an inch 

of its skin before I woke up for the second time

 

and made it to work before nine. Hyperfocus

to better hold back the workplace hyperfocus, 

and keep

the day slim. I can almost hear a therapist 

nod her head in approval.