these gnarled limbs

It is Winter.

Bundled up past all reason, we stumble our way down my steep backyard hill, and enter through a narrow, mulchy path. The path splits, a T of infinite possibilities, and we choose neither left nor right, but forward.
Off the beaten path
disregarding the safe route
a subtle act of rebellion
against these goosefeather straitjackets
we have been wrapped and trapped in by our mothers.
Now,
enveloped in these gnarled limbs,
we hunt
dragons, and rat creatures,
in the name of a safer tomorrow.
Snow crunches beneath us and flurries behind us as we hurtle towards
our haven,
our castle.
Three stone walls, which we have worshipped and rested in, jut out from the snow-blanketed earth like pierced flesh.
This time, we rest.

It is Summer.

Layers upon layers slip off in a wet heap, traded for soft cotton shirts and cheap jeans.
It is a wet journey now, to the walls.
Rain from days prior has made the Little Miami rise, and at some point in the mayhem
a tree has fallen
dangling out over the river like the powerful pole of a stoic fisherman.
We crawl out atop this gnarled limb like ants frenzying,
and there I tease you,
a fake push here and shove there...
You are unbalanced.
Your knuckles go white as you clutch onto the trunk
gasping for want of breath and overwhelming fear
before I heave your sopping frame out of the murky, sinister rush of the torrent.
Walking you home, our excuse is thin and implausible
I am scared of what your mother might say, but
I hear nothing more about it.
Probably because you wanted to forget.
I did not.

It is Fall,

and I miss you.
Times are
simple
but not as they once were
and we are still the same.
You smoke cigarettes, you kept up your drawing (I’ve long since given up), and you dream of, practice, and aspire to your punk rock.
I smoke pot, keep up my classical, before and after drumline (which I dream of, practice, and aspire to).
We have always been the same,
no matter how different.

Now I am tiptoeing out of my house,
sneaking with boys who you do not associate with.
We make our way down by the same mulchy path
but upon the fork we choose right.
The night air is thick, and impenetrably dark (with you it was always light)
In my older age,
my ears have matured,
and I hear much more than I ever have before.
The click of an unsheathed pocket knife
the cutting of a plastic water bottle
the crinkling of aluminum foil as
the two objects coalesce
into some disposable tool.
The flick of a lighter.
Laughter.
Hushing, whispers
of girls, drums, and the thrill of it all,

but

somewhere deeper
darker still
off the beaten path,
I can hear a twitch,
faint and familiar crunching of a twig underfoot,
the satisfying break of a hardened, dead digit,
And I wonder
is it maybe you,
wandering through this sea of gnarled limbs,
somewhere only we used to know?
Or is it some deer,
acutely unaware of this
bitter taste of human demise
which, slowly but suddenly,
begins to part our lips
edging closer and closer to this
the One Truth;

these gnarled limbs can only shield so much, withstand what little weight we have
until
the branch
breaks.