Once, bridal wreath shrubbery
surrounded our back yard, grew
higher than us kids in the days
when we used to burrow a cave
under its plethora of dry twigs
filled with white flowerheads,
lending miniature bouquets
to decorate the place we buried
dead pets.
But those bushes are gone today
when I revisit the old home place
after forty years away.
first published in Illinois State Poetry Society
©2018 Bonnie Manion