lavender and rosemary

long forgotten childhoods 
buried in cricket-chirping nights
come out in my dreams. 
beneath the rose and strawberry bushes
lie the rinds of half-eaten watermelon slices. 
foggy windows follow summer thunderstorms,
and i pretend that i can taste the cold drops
from within these wooden walls. 
leather-bound fairy tale books
and yellow fairy lights
flutter around my feather-drowned bedroom. 
for a moment i’m lost in the woods,
aspen trees dancing around.
taunting. 
i scream and it’s gone. 
then i fall into a gurgling river,
and while i’m under
i can see a child skipping stones
above me. 
they sink into my hands
and so i
skip them 
underwater. 
(they don’t go very far, 
although they leave a trail of bubbles behind)
after i float back to the shore,
i dry myself by walking along the river. 
i return home
with dirt and tears splattering my face. 
lavender and rosemary are tucked into my hair,
a silent frog is cupped in my hands. 
i was never told to bathe myself,
so i walk out to the back porch and listen
to the wind whistling through the trees. 
the frog croaks. 
a spiraling metal staircase leads up to the roof,
and i drop the frog on one of the steps. 
it hops away, back to the river. 
or wherever it came from. 

i keep the lavender and rosemary in my hair. 
i like the way it smells.