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CAN YOU PICK THE ODD ONE OUT! 

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INHERITANCE

When I was little, knee-high to my Dad,
I often thought I should have been a lad:
I played with mud and scurried up trees,
Ran like a cheetah and bloodied my knees.

Behind our house, surrounded by laurels,
Our property was no place for loud quarrels:
It was a haven where young children played
And adult echoes were drowned or delayed.

Many fruit trees, scented and inviting,
Grew like giants, which I found exciting:
Oranges and peaches, tangerines and more
Protected guavas and medlars galore.

Then, in an instant, I was all grown up
(A wholesome girl needing no makeup);
My father left, by fate sadly torn
From home and the family that his dreams had borne.

In that old house, the place I remember
As a testament to a life so tender,
Is where my love for books and poetry
Bled out of hedgerows and collapsed symmetry.

When I left the soil where my heart had flowered
And words filled the pages that my eyes devoured,
My transplanted self quickly disappeared
Amidst the chaos of the life I feared.

What comes to mind, now that I'm much older
(And live where winters can cut and be colder),
Is the metamorphosis of a life gone by
That lives in the soul of my butterfly.

Mel Stiller
"The Stories I Tell"
Collected in FALLEN LEAVES ©
@melstiller8561 

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Can You Solve These 30 Tricky Riddles? 

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