Dear Youth

You, who are always on the road,
it’s been too long since we last talked.
Remember, at the playground, when I
heard your laugh, like cloudless sky?
Your voice was round as blueberries,
like children singing campfire songs.

You, of merely tender years,
of cartwheels on sun-brown hands
across a boardwalk, unaware
of other people passing by,
I can only look and sigh,
your skirt that flies, a sequin fan.

You—who tastes like waxy wrapped
saltwater taffy, root beer brown,
and smells like sundried wooden planks,
a week of waves, the Jersey Shore.
Remember a giddy ferris wheel,
breathless when we reached the top?

A scab on a knee, scar on a chin—
surely you must have a code.
Please write back, and I’ll transcribe.
There’s room in our empty nest,
a bed with a faded quilt of dreams,
a home that’s hungry for the light.





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