The color of my childhood was yellow.
Pine pollen pooled like spilled paint in puddles,
sprinkled across windshields and wide lawns.
The heat of the southern sun warmed my skin,
clumsily clasped grasshopper legs cut
my fingertips between trips to
the oak tree, where a number two pencil
tracked my misadventures.
I scattered corn for chickens and accidentally
cracked their eggs on concrete blocks by
the wheat field, creating a second sunrise.
My grandparents’ canary home was copied
by my best friend’s parents, two bright beacons
on a road lined with honeysuckle.
When I left, I pocketed paint chips and pencils,
pills for the unknown allergens, and a presence