An Author’s Evolution  I remember standing at the very top of the jungle gym. While two chestnut braids swayed down by my hips And bangs, in need of a trimming, fell down over my eyes. And little dollhouse people bustled about below. I remember quietly, Quizzically surveying my domain. As a ravenous confusion gnawed away At a corner of my consciousness. Why did those surrounding me take such pleasure In filling meaningless shapes with garish crayon colors And standing at the front of the line I remember opening the pink lunchbox My mother had lovingly filled that morning. And taking out a bunch of grapes Pretending I was a hungry dragon Going grape picking. Do dragons like grapes? I giggled at the thought of a bloodthirsty beast Eating a fruit salad. I remember Suddenly pointing to a thick novel, Collecting dust on an overhead shelf. Pulling it down And hoisting the cover open. Harry Potter I read And the Sor—-cer—-ers Stone “Maybe when you’re older.” my mother reassured me, Tentatively placing it back up on the shelf. But later that night Inevitabely destroying my five year old innocence Hauling the book to my bedroom. Letting myself slip beneath the surface Into a place where words formed a perfect melody And the story rolled off my lips Sweet as spun sugar. I remember. Picking up that despised crayon box. Pulling out a shade of sparkling blue And making the words Once upon a time….