At the Bus Stop - Kathleen Bechtold

In summer, we'd catch FireFlies in milk jugs

and build forts in the woods, and fort-ify them,

so we could have rock-throwing wars and maybe win

and always bruise and usually have fun.

When the grass got long enough to hide in, we'd dig

GIANT dinosaur nests and mazes for bugs and then

we'd always forget and fall in them when playing cops and robbers.

I'm older, now- it's winter,

and the FireFlies are gone

and the leaves are gone and the forts are gone and the dinosaurs are bones

and it hasn't snowed enough for snowball fights, not really.

But, I still wheeze cold winter breath, and pretend I'm a dragon:

dragons don't grow up.