don’t bother looking for oliver larch.
he didn’t die.
he’s been here with me,
counting frogs that fell from the sky.
mama washed out my mouth with soap
for tellin a lie,
but oliver larch
calls and cries
from under the snow where no footprints go–
with a look of surprise
instead of eyes.
herotomost says write about something that was “your thing” when you were young. I used to scavenge the bookshelves at home, in hopes of finding paperback books about strange and creepy (but supposedly true) occurrences like the disappearance of oliver larch, or rains of frogs, or such like. i found three or four, over time, and would curl up with my new find and devour it. i never forgot those stories, and have never lost my fascination with the unexplainable.