"Childhood" - A Poem

Eight years old.
I think it was my first day outside alone,
to explore the world.
I didn’t get farther than the poplar in our backyard,
its leaves bending low and open,
broad-backed and beckoning,
so green and desirable, a kind of wet and sticky
glisten from morning.
I supposed the Sandman had visited it, too.

Well I could wipe it clean.
And in the meantime unclothe this world.
So I approached, blessing myself,
and rubbed the green green leaves,
rubbed them greedily with my soft, plump fingers,
feeling it, feeling the sweat, the soft spine spreading
over its hidden underbelly, the lighter, paler part.
I could taste its essence with my hands.

Then I grew embarrassed and suddenly ran back inside,
the screen door on the porch slamming behind me
with a violent echo.
So I had learned the world.
For the rest of the day, I could not get
that green off my hands,
though I scrubbed and scrubbed
with the certainty of the experienced.