Cartwheel

I wonder where old cartwheeled shadows go
when children leave home
no longer standing on the picnic table

to reach their favorite tree
or scraping their knees on smooth linoleum.
strawberries we called them

knowing they weren't dessert
and as for that wouldn't you
give almost a king's ransom

to relish strawberry ice cream
the way that we did then
when the sun winked like

crushed raspberries through
the picture window near
the piano;

where you learned all that music
by heart.
and the pine trees loomed like

guardian angels
in the firefly dark

mary angela douglas 30 october 2015