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When I Was Eight

I owned a warm breezed first Spring day
in radiantly refulgent sun
between billowed cumulative clouds
white as sailing sheets
on our vibrating
shaking and tugging cotton clothesline
swaying multi-colored tops
and sun bleached blue jean bottoms.

Like God,
I looked curiously
benignly
warmly down

As industrious ants
with apparently urgent missions
I would never learn how to assign
chewed and sniffed their singular ways
through a forest of shading grass
over dappled shadow soil

Vibrant blades of pointed grass
as tall as trees to ambitious worker ants
sometimes militaristic
but now peacefully recovering
discovering thawed warm roots
of cooperative deep dark Earth.

I could not own a wealthier Spring day
except just now,
at sixes with seven,
often remembering this polished day
and night dreamed moment
beside breeze blown white sailing ships
of sun-scent cotton state
breathing in under first fresh cut lawn
to notice how wee ants live
side-by-side
refurbishing
rubbing up against and with
warm lamped memories

Recreating paths
by imaginatively embodying them
yet again

This first-owned warm Spring breeze
of wistful
divine memory.

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