Starry Nights

The greatest part of childhood is possibly how vivid everything was–nothing was recognizable beyond indistinct shapes and bright colors.

My youth is remembered in color:
Yellows, oranges, blues and blacks.

 Childhood’s hour has never been sweeter—
Has never sounded more like the music
I was brought up with:
Lucid—almost—mostly sweet—
Darkness was a lurking thing back then,
Hovering in crevices, where light 
Only flows like water
Over rock, smoothing
Dreams of melodies—echoes of time.
Has innocence been culled, nipped
As a young, tender
Shoot?

Long ago, perhaps, in an
Orange haze.
No, the heat reminds me of a
Gorgeous summer song.

 Been followed by a moon shadow before?
Ever stayed out until the purple-blue
Evening bleeds into yellow-black
Night?

 Dead air is pierced by childish laughter.
Everyone is outside. The mosquitoes
Are buzzing, but all that is heard is the
Dry chirping of the invisible crickets.

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