In the long shadows through golden hay, we walked like giants, When long summer days melted together like warm wax birthday candles,
Lighting the way beneath the swollen moon for hot electric runs through wet grass.
Like neon, we glowed among maple trees and the smell of licorice and blackberries.
Sleeping in blankets of thick valley fog, nestling into the hill crooks.
We gulped the nebulous air and cut it with our hands, Restless and unrelenting; our youth in the old yellow house.
Shattering skipping stones over icy waters and building cattail boats,
We fell in love with seasons and the rhythm of the woodstove; Popping and cackling, nipping at the frosty boots, melting into puddles on the hearth.
Summer left on the breeze and brought the shiver back to our spines.
In the long shadows through ice crested cold, we walked like giants,
When short winter days became a slideshow of everything monotonous and well worn.
Flickering candles in the windowsill, we slipped behind white lace curtains and hid from eyes of judgement.
Flannel shirts and pancakes, sweet like a cavity, the ache of cold waning like the moon.
Until the buds of cracked open birch trees unfurled happily before us.
We ran out in muck boots, squashing like pumpkin smashing over bridges: in secrecy.
Ensconced inside the sapling grove, we set fire to the meadow grass,
We lived circled among the ring of heat, our dreams ablaze. Dancing shadows enveloped us and sealed the dark space around us,
Looking up into constellations and connecting them like drops of dew on a string.
This was before our youth faded like calligraphy on a yellowing page.
Being young: before you know that nothing beautiful ever lasts.