Once a sweet breath
of light spring clear air
drawn early in the morning
as damp dew cool and fresh
touches toes in wet Keds
that run in morning fields,
to evening woods so large
they must not be on any map
remain unexplored and mysterious

Until one day Ked’s don’t fit
beat, ragged and worn
like bedsheets of the sick
and spring turns to August
heavy sour and tainted
with the jaded sweat of time
and there is no time to explore
any morning fields, or evening woods,
because fields and woods don’t fit
and they are no longer huge, new
or a mystery