Grandmothers and tricycles

Grandmothers, and tricycles,
Fly through the screened door
Not listening to the slam shut
The slow warn steps of floor
In places no longer then childhood
Standing back from the window ledge

The hard coal-bin morning of huddled brothers gone away
Remembering black ;shoveled  to the red hot sparking flame
The creaky grate closing below the warm steam of musky days--
Mittens ;one left behind the dresser you find on moving day after goodbyes
The key you leave on the ring long after the lock is gone
Because you treasure the smooth feel of so many memories
Like chrome polished till the brass reveals itself

That little thing you left in the attic; lost in its uselessness you needed
You find the little treasure of your past ;dusty in the forgotten corner
Passed on to a time you don't use anymore

The trail of you follows the unmoved grass
Your bare tickled feet calloused hard, and bee-stung
Rolling  the oats; between worlds delinquent hours
Running home through the tight deep clover
Over the hill ; pulling your sisters hair because it's real
screaming, shoving, jostling your way from being small 
Wrestling your way into manhood
Then beyond.