Impetuous, we fly into the sun
with fragile wings; we always fall
but then we get up
and try again, somewhat singed
and just a trifle smarter.
 
Growing is a painful thing;
every era has known its own pain.
 
I am sitting at my ancient desk
gathering wild strawberries
into tin buckets. The memories
are bigger than my thumbs, but the poems
always seem to come out smaller.
 
I wish you could have tasted that sweet summer
when all that bloomed was tousled by the wind.
 
Through the curtains in my room,
I see that far off hillside. Wise men say
you can’t go home again, still
I wonder if those berries
would taste as sweet today as they did then.
 
 
 
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