Kittitas County, 1987

In the backyard, beside the lilac,
the Russian olive tree would blossom
every spring – black bark, silver leaves, silver berries
that were not olives but something the size and shape
of pebbles.
                   How I loved to hold them,
to peel back their soft skin which was not
at all like a pebble.
                                    I would climb
into the Y of the branches, while inside the house
a cake was baking, the light warm
and golden, and I believed I would be young
and a child in that place forever.
                                                     I believed the kite

which had been snagged by the limbs
of this tree the spring before would not shred,
would not drop, would remain,
                                                    bright red and blue,
forever in the arms of that old tree.
Suspended. Waving.