A hot air balloon hangs in the sky
like a gumdrop.
School kids roam
the playground like ants
a boy on a scooter
zips by the backstop
calling “Look at me! I’m going
as fast as I can!”
I remember those young days:
the lazy winters
with pink and lavender sunsets
the carefree summers
laughing on the sands of
La Jolla shores
the easy autumns
returning to the classroom
to share what I know
the exceptional springs
when the world comes alive
again and the green-veined leaves
are reminders of my youth.
Where are those days now,
you ask? I keep them in
a box in my closet, next to
the tax returns, the VHS tapes,
and the Father’s Day cards
from the kids.
And I go there
now and then
when I want
to be young
when I want
to be
the young boy,
but not the one
who is saying, “look at me!
I’m going
as
fast
as
I can.”
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