I remember those

times of innocence

in the backyard,

playing in the dirt

and pretending that

all the world was there,

captured and complete,

in the trails

and constructions

laid out in the dust

and in the imagination.

 

I built highways,

in that dusty place,

with vehicles

and travel places,

and buildings and homes

that were filled with

exotic and spectacular stories

of people and

their intricate lives;

and happy families

sat down to dinner

with no shouting

or looks of trouble and pain,

but simply smiles

and loving gestures

mixed with the gentle air

of possibility.

 

But at the

going down

of the summer sun

and the picking up

of the late-day breeze,

the work of the day

is covered over

in the dust of history,

like my crumbling memory

from later life,

and the call of home

resonates chill

across the yard

and the moving

shadows of the trees.

 

4/8/2016