Rotten Timber

He asked about the planks we'd stack,

his voice a casual, soft attack.

Ten years old, still small enough

for make-believe, for childhood stuff.

The lumber, out by the old shed wall,

has seen too many seasons fall.

A splintered, grey and rotten heap,

a promise broken, secrets I keep.

His eyes, so clear, they cut right through,

to what I said I'd always do.

Now just a boy, too big to climb

into that tree, and out of time.