My roots, planted in the heart of Hartland,

 tore moving.

Along with memories left behind,

my late-labrador lays beside the tree;

a branch still scarred from the rope I swung off of.

Warmed by a stone fire-place on winter nights,

surrounded by windows out-looking fresh snow trails.

The crackling timber buzzed in my ear

as the heat softly stung my back.

I no longer have a fireplace,

instead, I hide beneath the covers in the silence of my room.

East Capitol Drive, the link between Citgo and Walgreens,

where all the coins found under cushions disappeared to. 

My friends scattered on sub streets of this one,

everything happens here.

I no longer live on a welcoming street,

instead, I wait five minutes to cross to the sidewalk.

My toes, at the tip of the water’s edge,

secured my balance as I search for frogs.

“Ribbit, ribbit.” Bounces off the rocks and my eyes land on a prize,

a frog the size of my hand.

I sneak through the cattails, but my mission got interrupted,

“Dinners done, come inside!” My mom informs through the kitchen window.

I no longer own a pond,

instead, I switch between apps on my phone.