God, I miss those days

-- sun-baked days

and firefly nights --

where the only sin was 'staying in'

... the maple leaves swayed,

and the sun set late.

The river whispered

timeless tales to us

of tranquility:

lulled us to sleep, each night,

while we watched the ants

scurry by.

Each night, the fire,

fueled by school papers and good spirits:

drive the beasts out of

earwiggy chairs,

call guitars out of their elusive

hiding-places,

and bring forth voices

we never knew we had.

It breeds reminiscence

(nostalgia)

Regretting those skeptical

throwback, playground times,

when big shoes tread

the faded, chalky patterns...

and mind the lines no more.

But then we leave.

Too fast, too soon --

Eden grows overcast

and leaves us suddenly

grasping for those last

spellbound moments --

when you knew

you'd be someone.