a mid-summer’s day I’m 8 years old
brookside on my knees under a willow
the tiny stream gurgles almost
as happily as me my hand slips
in and scours one deep hole’s secrets
crayfish frogs baby sunfish
tadpoles that flee my shadow still
get netted by my imagination and some
in my hand their black wiggle
tickles in a hopeless sort of way
a blue dragonfly decorates
a small patch of wild grass
drizzled by the late afternoon sun
I start to dam the water’s
destiny but fail flow it must
I didn’t know what a poet’s lunch
this scene was back then though I did
devour the moments and savor the memory
just glad I finally went back
to leave a tip