To Return

What I wouldn't give,
To return to the golden patchwork quilts of corn.
To smell the coarse, turbid air after they set the barren rice fields a fire.

What I wouldn't give,
To sit on the porch to watch the crop-dusters
mobbing the fields like mocking birds.
To dodge the hot sticky sunflower leaves,
reaching for my body as my feet sail me past their sun-swollen faces.

What I wouldn't give
To return to the swing under the medieval oak tree,
relaxing away the days and kissing away the nights.
To breathe the sweet stagnant smell of hay
on my rustled hair as I stealthily scale the might oak.

What I wouldn't give
To return to my idealized childhood.

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