elizabethlevett

Looking up, I am eight years old.

The grass is thick and cool.

I lie with my head against a huge, old, twisted trunk.

My eyes roam forgetfully and I am

lost in the awe of a million moving shadows,

moving lights, nodding leaves.

I am solid and liquid and whole, huge as a country,

small as a breath.

I am on base.

This is your last session, she says.

Her green eyes have become a vast country of trust.

Have you thought of what you’d like to do?

Lying back, her voice guides me to a place

where pale blue glides across my vision.

I am feeling my way through water,

holding my breath, taking my time.

I rise up and look around me.

There is his strong chest, his strong arms,

the pale blue of the surface, of my fathers eyes.

I am safe.

Pounding along through the park alone,

I look up once again.

Up above the silent trunk are the green and nodding leaves.

I lose track.  How many times have I run around this field

so far today?

I lose time but find my way

and black crows dive off above the green to blue.

Floating again and then I’m on base, silent.

To sleep in the green and the blue

and the dark.  Safe.