Corner Light

In the attic, dust motes swam,

a universe in a sunbeam.

I found the box, a slight soft slam

as I opened it. A childhood dream

or maybe a small fear, laid flat.

A lopsided house, crayon red.

And taped behind it, where it sat,

the photo of my childhood bed.

That faded floral on the wall,

the paper peeling, just a bit.

That tiny mark, I stood so tall,

my father measured it.

I traced the line with my own hand.

It felt so small. The room was bright

in the memory, but the land

of then is just a corner light

I can't quite reach, or turn back on.

Just a ghost of sun on that old bed.