Blueprints (Davina)

I've got seeds in my pocket,

a tape measure in my hands,

and plans rolled up tight on tracing paper

in my backpack—all these for when 

I end up where I'm headed, and it comes 

the time to build.

In the land that will be mine,

I'll first find where the little creek flows, and

plant the maple with the crooked branch 

that leans over the water, for fishing.

Then, the old oak with its plastic red swing

and the big mango tree, for climbing,

and tall hemlocks next to wide-limbed spruces,

for the children to hide beneath and play. 

I'm bringing my sister's quiet street

to settle around the house, a long loop

wide enough for four to walk side-by-side,

barefoot on greying asphalt still leaking 

the sun's warmth in late afternoon.

I'll make a garden, too, filled up with 

vegetables and flowers alike, and

bordered by my mother's old butterfly bushes.

She and I will sit out there in summer,

reading the books she never 

found the time to read, and with new eyes

she'll laugh at fine print with me.

Inside the house there will be a special closet, 

for memories that only need remembering 

once in a while. 

My father's father will keep 

his wheelchair in this closet, while he plays 

Chinese shuttlecock out in the courtyard,

and my friends will leave

their hospital gowns—faded, worn,

smelling faintly of death—

folded neatly on the shadowed shelves.