When I Was Eight

I owned a warm breezed first Spring day in radiantly refulgent sun between billowed cumulative clouds white as sailing sheets on our vibrating shaking and tugging cotton clothesline swaying multi-colored tops and sun bleached blue jean bottoms. Like God, I looked curiously benignly warmly down As industrious ants with apparently urgent missions I would never learn how to assign chewed and sniffed their singular ways through a forest of shading grass over dappled shadow soil Vibrant blades of pointed grass as tall as trees to ambitious worker ants sometimes militaristic but now peacefully recovering discovering thawed warm roots of cooperative deep dark Earth. I could not own a wealthier Spring day except just now, at sixes with seven, often remembering this polished day and night dreamed moment under and beside breeze blown white sailing ships of sun-scent cotton state breathing in under first fresh cut lawn to notice how wee ants live side-by-side refurbishing rubbing up against and with warm lamped memories Recreating paths by imaginatively embodying them yet again This first-owned warm Spring breeze of wistful divine memory.