Pollen shaken
into the air greets my
nostalgic nose.
What summer must have been
twenty years ago.
The haybalers are somewhere,
I hear them in the distance,
churning. But the sound
of birds outweighs them.
There will be no more rumble
when they are finished, left
with the quiet, I will only
sneeze in honor
of the child I used to be.
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His poems have recently appeared at Cacti Fur and Strange Poetry. DeHart blogs at jddehartfeaturepoems.blogspot.com.
Foxglove Journal 