The bats are flying through the dusk
Like they’re running from something
And I am 16 again on the way home /
18 and thinking of a boy I never loved /
I am 23 and my legs stick to the seat
The seasons come and go and bring up old aches
They never go away but sometimes they’re closer to the surface
As the indigo night reaches out towards the setting sun
Always a hand’s breadth too late
I run my feet through the wet grass
I am 7 and I am in love
With the earth and all it offers of itself to me
Year after year
Who could’ve dreamt of such a thing?
