The Lot Next Door

We weathered changes in the lot next door.
Wet-kneed, intent, we crouched, solitary
conscripts, smoothing cracks in snow fort walls.

Through the monastic hush of trees white gleamed,
then burst into a salvo of snowballs that shook
the branches bare. Spring meltdown swelled the trees

and from the thatch of maples rope vines swung
us trunk to trunk. On summer nights our shadows
trapped lightning bugs in sparkling jelly jars,

and set them free when Mother called us in.
Winter, spring, summer, again and again.
Until no one called us, and the season passed.

Joyce Nower

Comments from judge Bernard Henrie:
In only twelve lines, "The Lot Next Door" reconstructs childhood memories and then adds a coda, an adult summation one part accurate reporting, two parts longing and acceptance. As noted, I feel both HM poems possess scope, vision and power.
They are both winning poems.