The wild cherry trees are in blossom, stinking up the entire back yard of the home I grew up in. I have memories of flopping around in a hammock between those trees. There was one day in particular, I recall it vividly - staring at the tops of the trees, feeling them move, watching the dance they all knew - a kind of motion communication.

These cherry trees taught me the secret language that goes on above most people's heads.

And if I have lived twenty eight summers, then I have seen it twenty eight times, but my eyeballs are shocked nonetheless, every single blink - every single open, it is as if they are seeing this color - this green - for the very first time. So saturated, so dense, and just getting started. This green could be the New World Order as far as Michigan spring is concerned.

Lilies of the Valley are precious raindrop tea cups - one lump or two, Miss Cumulous Cloud? I am instantly five years old in this back yard, on this green hill - my mommy will always be the prettiest and my daddy built this house. And travel as I do, transform as I might, grow into a woman, fall in love, Priestess Femme, I will always become little tk, spoiled with love and attention. In the driveway cement - they are mine: miniature hands. Dated and immortalized - they are mine: forever little me.

Tomorrow I will hang a hammock and eavesdrop the cherry trees.

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