Memory

Chirping birds under my window,
the same sound that woke me up
in summers of before,
heavy like honey on my tongue,
sliding down my throat,
a half forgotten song
pushing to the front of my mind.

 

 

The heady smell of the morning,
with grass and trees and wet earth
baked slowly by the new Sun.
Muddy hands making cakes,
daisies and sweet flowers you could eat
if you were brave enough.

 

 

Fireflies, hush, don't tell,
we've gone to catch the fireflies,
you have to be quiet, please, please,
jump over the fence, peek through the hedge,
there will be jam and bread for us after.