This memory
is a younger
version of me,
nostalgia
distorted by
time and distance
to be played out
in a dream.

I follow
flitting footprints
that represent
some previous sentiment
of playful movement.

Then sit silently
on a sandy beach
watching a world
that never was
and never will be
again.

Little rubber rafts
float lazily
as children laugh
and splash playfully.

I run roughly
then stop
to wiggle each digit
feeling the wet grit
and grinning.
as the sand sifts
softly through
my tiny toesies.

A boombox plays
a song I cannot
make out,
as if
it is
just filler
for some
tv scene
in my dream.

This reverie
is like a prized parcel,
or a delicious morsel
of some recipe
that incorporates
the best past parts of me
into its fine aged flavoring.

Abruptly
I awake
a slight tinge
of sorrow
sliding down
my face
for that lost place.