The crocuses in my front yard are blossoming. The weather is ripe for exploration.
But there are no trails here; no well-wooded parks. Just trimmed grass
and goose droppings; broken asphalt bike paths. I miss picking wildflowers
and hiding among the trees with friends. Breathing
the humid air trapped beneath tree canopies.
It is hard to acknowledge those times have passed.
They seemed so significant, but feel unsubstantial. My sister,
the bright star, the butterfly, reminds me to stay positive. This is an opportunity!
—To new friends! To new paths and new memories! —
that in 12 months or 60 years may only remain as fuzzy, soft-focused daydreams.
But at least they will be my daydreams, not an allusion in a novel
or a visualization from a poem, they will have been real to me even if for only those