Daydreaming on a Snowy Day

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.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s