The lichen glows neon on rain-darkened tree trunks
A breeze rustles droplets from each budding branch
Then bursts out the sun making everything shimmer
and the slow peace perks up like a mirthy song,
That’s when childhood dreams loose like a flock overhead
And I’m seized by nostalgia for things I’ve never done:
.
For those shiny tap shoes and wispy braid crowns
And gold leaf books in some green velvet chair,
For flower seed packets and rafter-hung herbs,
For rising bread dough and a violin,
A jar of paintbrushes, a creek-side tree swing,
A gauzy nightgown and real kerosene lamp,
For waltzes and sunhats and murals and pearls,
For cuddles and giggles on quilt-sit picnics.
.
I catch them and squeeze them tight under my eyelids.
Pop them in my mouth before they fly away.
The things I once longed for before I smelled glory
The things that I savored before goals took their place.
I take off my shoes and I let my long hair down.
I squish moss and mud between my cold toes.
I sweep up my daughter; we whirl round the trees and laugh.
We talk of the mysteries hid under our skin.
.
