Childhood

The wind was blue, the white clouds flew,
The tattletails by the coffee-weed grew,
The clover always lost their leaves,
The drops always fell under eaves.

The pine cones were great to eat,
The mud felt good beneath the feet,
The wind yelled, the thunder bumped,
The rain sloshed, and the trees thumped.

Now the wind is vapor, as we all know,
And the foxtails by the plantain grow.

1978