I long for the grit,
Of soil neath’ my nails,
And the tickle of seeds in my palm.
I long for the drops,
Of warm, trickling rain,
As they trace long lines down the window.
I long for the beads,
Of sweat upon my brow,
And sweet kisses of sun on my skin.
I long for the knots,
Of burrs on my laces,
As I walk jagged lines through the meadow.
I long for the wisp,
Of fog in the morn,
And the splash of dew on the grass.
I long for to press,
’Gainst the foot of a tree,
As I rest with a book in its shadow.
I long for the lead,
Of days such as this,
And their promise of being renewed.
I long to be lost,
In nature’s hidden places,
And the rest of the world, I will forgo.
Ah, summer. You belong to the young and young at heart.