Buttercup Hill
Only a block away,
really at the end of our cul-de-sac,
we were a world away
up on Buttercup Hill.
No houses with prying eyes,
only boulders with crawly surprises.
They would invade our craggy castle
and we would abandon it
to run farther up Buttercup Hill.
The golden grass waved,
long enough to slip beneath
our outstretched fingers.
Sometimes the little
blue and yellow flowers would catch
our eyes and we would pause our climb.
Pick a bunch and run back down the hill,
down the street to our mothers.
They pretended to like our handpicked presents.
Even if there were crawly surprises on them.
The only adult ever invited to visit our world away
drove his four-wheeler up the street,
me and Andrea giggling in the sled towed behind.
Dad revved the engine up and up and up.
Before turning around and hauling down the hill.
The first bump left Andrea behind.
The second bump, me.
Dad didn’t know until he got to the bottom
and turned around, laughing his hearty laugh.
We laughed along with him,
while running to catch our ride back down the street.
