I
want to go back to a time
When
details were not,
And
hours would pass without longing.
I
want the creaking of old woods,
Where
trees stirred the sky
And
leaves took flight like thrushes;
When
clover patches were forested worlds
And
unknown trails beckoned
Through
the whistling grass.
I
want the plunging depths of the lake,
When
water was the bluest thing imaginable,
And
frogs reigned in sand castles,
And the
wonder of being was enough.
I
want warm, drawn-out days of dripping popsicles,
When
I would wade knee-deep in dandelions
While
cicada choirs sang hymns to the sun.
I
want smoky campfire nights of sticky marshmallow,
When
I chased the bioluminescent swoop of fireflies
And
crickets orchestrated the slow sweep of stars.
But
now, even the bluest water
Turns
transparent in my hands,
And
leaves have become a chore,
And
the unknown is something to fear.
There
are no more fireflies to chase,
And
frogs have lost their crowns,
And
dandelions have grown into weeds,
And
escape isn’t easy anymore.
Oh,
I know those worlds are still there,
And
universes yet stir in the breath of grass,
But
they are hard to find now.
The
bigger picture intrudes,
And
consumes,
And
consumes.
