The stone-white rocks, on the side of my parents’ house.
The Easter eggs filled with my grandfather’s dirty quarters that tasted like medicine.
The baby swing bobbing, with my sister suspended in it.
The unicorns on the walls, and next to me on the school bus, and inhabiting my imagination, horns and all.
The maze of corn, with a camel stumping through it.
The pumpkins buried up to their necks, like big orange beach heads.
The wasps under the porch.
The steam coming off my Girl Scout patches, flowers coming up from a patch of green grass.
The Mary we crowned in May, as if it made a difference to her, as if there was nothing pagan about it.