On a Sunday, I sat under the tree in my front yard.
Easy, quiet, a sabbath of the week and the mind.
I look up and the dance of the leaves takes me to age 8 or 10.
A time when there was nothing but time to watch sunlight through leaves.
And only the smells of dirt and tomatoes and sunshine mixed with aged manure.
Any moment now, the sun will trade places with fireflies heralding the arrival of stars.
And when a crow caws I see the red tipped wings of my youth in cornfields.
Tears for time lost and times lived and loved
I am flooded