Back at the berry farm...
Boston's Berry Farm;
Where streams slide slick as oil
And beautiful birds choose their perches with caution.
With winding roads of dirt and dust,
Each pebble has its own face,
He throws one when I say no---
It hits my heart and shatters my hopes.
Silenced screams on the forest floor,
I bury myself in my mind
As he buries my head in his lap---
I stifle a cry, I swallow my pride, and I forget.
My best friend, my neighborhood knight
Picks up a baseball bat,
Slams the smile off of his face
Breaks his ribs, but doesn't break the promise.
No one knew, no one knows,
It stays buried under the maple leaves,
Under the twigs and the wildflowers,
Under the shadows of the silkworms' nests.
© Copyright 2017 Phoebe Kishbaugh. All rights reserved.
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