When you first felt the soft, rich soil,
The times you had played
In the hot street, sun pounding on your
Already burnt shoulders and cheeks,
Running after the ice-cream truck-
Like a tradition in the summer
With the kids on your street.
As you lift a handful of dirt
From the worn ground,
The days spent wistfully
Thinking, writing feverishly
In a worn, leather-bound notebook
About the days that would come.
As you let the damp earth
Slowly sift through your calloused hands,
The first days of the summer
That had you standing in the garden,
Every cold, crystal-clear morning,
Standing amongst the flowers and the dirt-
Wondering how such credulous and timeless earth
Could give way to such a raw beauty.
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