(Keeping the first and last stanza of Ralph Fletcher’s poem, The Good Old Days. A writing intro at a recent How’s It Going book study group.)
The Good Old Days
Sometimes I remember
the good old days,
playing outside in my acre-wooded backyard
with my younger sister and rescued dog,
both in our handmade fort
of fir tree branches and fallen leaves.
We’re fresh from playing
in the nearby stream.
Mom sends us lunch,
heart shaped sandwiches and time for a story.
I still can’t imagine
anything better than that.