When I Write


There’s something I cannot explain
lost in summer nights,
a feeling I cannot regain,
childhood’s delight.

I know it when a day grows gold;
fainting yellow light
paints evergreens in colors bold.
Dying dreams still fight.

Or see it in a field of grass,
paused on sidewalk white,
remembering how time would pass
playing out of sight.

I think I knew it long ago
—love for it is right—
yet still I find it’s hard to know
save for when I write.


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