When I was six
I used to scamper to the trunk of the towering magnolia tree,

stretch my tiny arms over my head,
wrap my fingers around the thick branches,
and pull myself up with a heave and grunt
and a scuffle of sandled feet against smooth bark
that appeared smooth 'til my cheek rubbed against it
and I realized it was rougher than the bottoms of my feet
whose tenderness I had stepped out of like shoes
and left on gravel paths and in musty woods.
It was like unlocking an eggshell and stepping inside.
On the stillest days I'd climb to the second highest branch.

The great tree would sway slightly

as I shakily clung to its pinnacle.

Last week I climbed the magnolia,
once again felt the soft crunch of dead leather beneath my feet
and sandpaper in my palms and against my cheek.
I can't fit into my branch anymore,
where six years prior my best friend and I carved our initials-
they're hard to make out and we don't speak anymore.
The tree rocks when I reach the fifth highest branch,
And storms have taken limbs
vital to the secrecy.
This is my lost hideaway:
a peephole,
a limb that doesn't fit,
a deserted robin's nest at the apex,
and broken eggshells
scattered around the trunk.