Days of Yore
On an early spring morn, with the sun in our eyes, cool breeze brushing away our curly tresses—we frisked as mad as March hares, chasing butterflies—yellow, orange and spotted reds. So many times, we came closer but every time, the butterflies were smarter than us.
lifts from waving cornfields—
a Monarch misses our attention.
Some dew still clings to our sandals, though the sun blazes across a coppery sky. We stumble through windswept grass, sprawling wild berries and the deadly night shade, till we see a tiny path leading to a small cottage—no longer lived in. No sound except the rasp of crickets.
Ivy clambers wildly
over shut windows—
my swing still intact.