Question

1) A childhood memory (playing in the backyard)
2) A pet (a dog that waited at the door). Write a strong poem about that.

Answer 1

We made kingdoms out of lawn —
tall grass a green sea, the fence a far horizon,
a bent hose our river, a tire swing our moon.
Knees earned their map of scabs and stories,
marshmallow clouds stitched to the backs of our necks;
we practiced being loud enough to scare away time.

At the threshold the dog kept vigil,
a slow metronome of tail and breath,
ears tuned to the particular crumple of my footsteps.
He did not chase the world; he waited for me to return to him.
When I crossed that invisible line he brightened —
a small sun rising under the porch light,
tongue and grin knocking years open like a can.

Sometimes, in the middle of a meeting or a midnight,
I can still feel that patient doorway:
the scrape of a paw against the jamb of memory,
the honest covenant of one who waits without asking why.
Play and safety handed each other back like old friends;
I learned, barefoot and bruised, how to belong.

If the backyard taught me flight, he taught me landing —
to come home even when there is no home to run to,
to be found, again and again, by a faith that refuses to be hurried.