The landslide of time is as sure as the sky
And soon, at no fault of its own,
It will yellow the photographs, letters, and books,
As children will outgrow their homes.

It started at recess when girls whispered low,
Of fevered obsession with highlighted hair,
With daiquiri lip gloss, shaving their legs
Or trying on clothes only mothers would wear.

It must’ve been then when the landslide began,
The playground girls offering up all they knew,
Now their past’s behind rose-colored glasses,
Only remembered by much too-small shoes.

The avalanche claimed them at their request,
Each boulder a decade; a damning decree,
While I took cover under my baby face,
Wondering why I couldn’t just “be.”

In the summer-soaked fields where I learned to walk,
Where popsicle tongues and sidewalk chalk hands,
Would greet me in earnest and let me recall,
What it was to be young in this far-away land.

Nostalgia was knawing and before I knew,
I tired of hiding from time with no end.
I surrendered myself to the rocks and remains;
Each felt like the loss of a once-sacred friend.

Though bruises there bloomed from time’s harsh assault,
An odd sense of peace would envelope me soon,
When I saw the sculpture formed up by debris,
As I looked down in the light of the moon.

Each stone that had plummeted past on its way,
Was a precious piece of my girlhood gone by,
Slowly forming a masterpiece made just for me, 
Each rock a remembrance, a star in my sky.