When the wind is silent,
and the crickets are loud
when you can taste the air
and smell damp ground,

When bare feet roam
over worn down gravel
and the sun kisses skin
tans it soft and brown,

When toothpicks are stuck,
in ice cube trays for weeks,
and small fingers are fused
together with melted sugar,

When ropes are swung over
trees that conveniently hang
over the bit too dried up lakes
with their muddy banks,

When dirt is kicked up with
a gentle step of a clean boot
and settles upon every crevice it can,
and sinks in caking up thick,

When the clouds are hiding,
and the heat is brutal,
when ice cold water just
isn’t enough for parched lips.

You can take out the cracked glass,
run thumbs over worn wood,
tap a rhythm on my face
and maybe just wonder if i belong in this place.