Most of All, I Miss…

I miss the crack of the bat,
the slap in the glove,

dirt and blood collected grabbing a backyard fumble.

Gone is dawn fresh dew,
wicked into blue jeans from waist-high soybeans,

when I walked fields, hoeing weeds.

Nearly forgotten are post-midnight bike rides,
past teeth-bared, ready-to-bite dogs,

and skeleton-filled cemeteries.

I remember script less dates,
starring long smooth legs,

delirious hands and confusion.

I miss,
smells of rain before it falls,
fractal forest shadows,
dreaming of love,
reading Dickens and Dickinson the first time,

my hand wind-surfing at 70 MPH out the car window.

Most of all I miss me.

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