I play in fields, those often forgotten,
Among blowing winds, from far begotten,
Dancing in wild daisies, as spring lingers,
Dueling shadows like swift gunslingers.
On the wind, I smell my mom's gingerbread,
And come racing home for a piece ahead,
Spice in her chiding, sugar in her voice,
Like her gingerbread, my favourite choice.
From the rooftop, I gaze at stars each night,
Listening to Dad's stories with eyes bright,
As he gently holds me in his hands rough,
Telling me those tales and making me tough.
And like passing clouds, those little days flew,
Reliving games, as woods from daisies grew,
Revisiting smells, from baked bread I buy,
Recalling tales, I gaze at the night sky.
