I don’t remember anymore how old I was,
those summers I went every morning.
I do remember standing ankle deep in river
looking at the stones which all seemed precious in the sun,
thinking nothing could ever be so beautiful.
Nothing ever has been.
I can’t tell you why the dirt is nice dirt,
why I can’t keep my shoes on, would not dare to try.
I tried to explain. I don’t think I succeeded,
but I think he understood. Laughed at me a little.
Always has laughed at me, just a little.
(And pointed out where there were fewer rocks.
I knew already. I did not go.)
There are black raspberries if you know where to look.
It’s nice to eat them and even nicer to leave some
for the next person
who knows where to look.
The field is full of dragon flies or fireflies
Sunlight or moonlight or cloudy glow-light
from the big hospital and the houses beyond the trees.
You can call it nostalgia if you want.
I prefer to call it coming home.
This is so happy, and it brings out the best things about coming back home. I’ve never had a river near my house growing up, just a muddy creek and I could not see the stones, but this poem makes me think of other rivers, other summers, and connect your words with images in my memory. In the end, it’s a little like synethsesia with feelings – home feels like standing ankle-deep in cool water, looking at the stones, squinting in the sun, even though for me, none of those things actually happened at home.