Time was you could still
hear apples sighing
in handmade orchards,
content, unhurried,
a bee drone metronome
counting the measures
of summer.
Time was a child’s feet
went shod in earth,
head uncovered,
a dream running on dreams
along pathways
made of
stories and fur.
Time was you could
sharpen a knife
without a permit,
to carve the seasons
as you pleased,
a life to fit in
the palm of your hand.
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