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.