When We Were Kids

Summer was a no-name season. Grassy days
and long months, full of dreams and health,
and scents of a simple green world, and

the sun and moon were old and young.
We understood that. That was the way
with us because our games had no rules.

And you said, I'm gonna be Charles Darwin.
You can’t, I said, someone else already is.

I wanted to be Tutankhamen,
even though I was a girl.

Emerald beetles owned you that summer.
I wore pillowcases on my arms, wings like
a butterfly. You leapt over logs like a frog.

You said, the air was filled with wet bear, but
it was just Granny’s woollen jumper teasing
your nose. She was always just within sight.

I remember that the sky was thin blue, and
you gave me a flower that smelled like clouds.
Time was slow, and we let it steal us away.