It’s autumn, and I’m five years old.
The trees are tall. I look up
I can’t see the sky
We walk on. Under my feet
Mud, gravel, sand?
I’m not so sure.

It doesn’t matter
My tiny hands wield a mighty sword
I run, the fallen bridge trembling
The world at my feet, at last.
A stick, a log, the past.

It’s summer now, and I’m thirteen.
We walk upstream. The trees
Are silent, and so am I.
There is no destination
Yet there is an end. I don’t know it yet
But this is goodbye.

It’s winter. I’m nineteen
And a thousand miles away.
The memories are blurry, confusing

But I don’t want to go back
Not to the falling leaves of autumn
Or the scorching heat of summer.
That place is frozen now
In memory.