I was young a few days ago, and there were things I didn’t know, so the soil under my
feet felt especially warm
and smelled like hope. And this richness lined my mind with its fragrant crumbles,
made me believe that there are things worth saying, and that
there is some way
of saying them.
I’m not young today (this is how things go),
and the dirt isn’t black
anymore, but medium brown,
and we are both leached.
And I do wonder, now, if there’s any point in speaking fragile things
when the sun is high and
killing like this.
But I am not old yet,
and there are still things I don’t know.