Mine was a privileged childhood.
Often I got to fall asleep
To the surprisingly soothing, satisfying din
Of raindrops rattling on the tin
Of our weathered, wood-sheathed house.
And when, on a sweltering summer day,
The wind and the rain would come and go
My brother and I would hurry out and dam the rushing waters
That made rivulets over the sandy soil
Beneath the heavy oaks under whose shade
Nothing grew except insects and children.
We were barefoot boys in harmony with the lesser creatures
But the occasional misstep was the last thing on our minds
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