One Last Ride
I would like to have one last ride on the golden hay.
I would love to feel the heat,.
especially, on my feet -
the way they used to feel,
pulling and curling,
cramping with such delight.
That kind of warmth has long been spent.
Yet inside, the desire remains aflame.
Digging in the cool dirt of my garden only satisfies the tactile surface,
and reminds me of the child inside, making mud pies.
The expanse from adolescent to crone,
a wide emptiness,
that has never been full grown.
Quick, before it's too late!
Let's try!
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