Chasing Childhood

The call of a locust
In late summer,
Lazy days of freedom
Begin to pall,
Lay in the drying grass
Scratchy on my legs,
Heat of sun on my back,
Watch butterflies dance
In twos and threes
Over a field
Shot with wildflowers.
Sweet smell of
Indian Paintbrush,
Softness of bristles
Tickle my nose.
The threat of a bee
Lured by the sweetness
Brings a moment of alert
To the easy, floating
Bubble of my being.