Little bits of memories, most over forty years old bouncing up against one another spilling into my present consciousness a bit of this and a measure of that places in my backyard, the smell of the kitchen the way the stairs to the upstairs opened to block the way to the living room the roots from the neighbor’s weeping willow, yellow, whips to snack the roots under the liner of our above ground pool blue, pale blue vinyl slide against my foot the basement, cool and damp grabbing my bike, head down to the river up the dirt road to the raspberry bramble the arborvitae bush, the jack in the pulpit below the yew bushes out front, bright red berries maple in the front yard, hydrangea bush in the corner of the flower, the vegetable garden the large stand of lilac, the dogwood, with the hens and chickens below all part of the world I knew about eight or ten falling out of my memories onto these lines