You cradled me from near infancy
and had me believing in a world
that shouted change from roof
tops high enough to eat the sky.
I brought you presents of nail
polished turtle shells and wild
flower bouqets and torn and scabby
knees ripped on blacktop barricades.
Once I knocked the binoculars
from the kitchen table and you shouted
until your face turned red and locked
me outside until my hands turned blue.
I'm pretty sure you're shrinking while
I grow and that my nose now rests
on your collar bones instead of halfway
down your arm and suddenly I'm afraid of heights.