I left my father's house
with my own tiny body
in my arms.
I slipped,
like a secret,
between the lips 
of the garden hedges.

It was morning,
and I cried to be allowed
to lie down and sleep
in the neighbor's front yard.
But I quickly silenced myself
and wrapped me tighter
in that thin blue blanket
that I still call my puff.

The air was still;
it was hot and thick, 
and the birds were just 
starting to call.
I left him no note,
though you could say
he had warning-
we'd been clinging and shoving,
hugging and running, and I've
been trying to do this 
for forty two years.

In the end,
I did not fear or fly.
I simply set forth.

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