Giant Steps
Poem by Donna O’Connell
Now a host of termites blights the yellow house.
It hunkers on a plain of bleached-out grasses
wearing seed heads light as air.
Back then, on dragged-out afternoons,
I climbed splintery stairs to the attic.
Snarling grown-up voices softened
until I could pretend they were quiet for awhile.
I gazed outside at the rise and hulk of trees
on the horizon, and envisioned other children there, playing “giant steps” in the shade.
At night the wind stomped
loose clapboards outside my room.
Mornings the meadowlark slurred his whistle,
and the savannah sparrows lisped.
Sometimes I scavenged small flowers
with blue petals and a cinnamon center.
I’d hurry back to the house,
but the flowers fell limp as stunned honeybees.
My skin turned the color of tomatoes.
I hid my face in the dense tall grasses,
never reached the shade of trees.
The house is nailed shut now.
On the horizon high buildings glaze in the sun.
