I lay down in the grass of the field
And feel the trees shaking in the distance
Barely rustled by the slow breeze.

I remember the last time I came here
Too many summers ago.
When I took to the branches of the tree,
Observed the quickly passing clouds,
And when I closed my eyes, 
Saw the bright, warm redness of the sun
Through my eyelids.

Those memories, familiar and indelible,
Give me chilly nostalgia.
But the sun on this day warms me.
No longer the sun of the past seasons

What is to come
For this field?
For me?
For anyone?

These waving grasses;
I feel I've known forever.
But no, they're new too;
Each blade-
Every root.

These trees grow old,
But they remain standing,
Rooted within my memories.

There will be other places
Where I will another day grow more nostalgia
But I'm not there;
Not yet.