Barefoot Summer

We ran barefoot through the summer grass
without once considering the glass—
the world was large enough to run in,
the afternoon too long to be slow.

The grass knew our weight by heart,
the path knew where we always went,
the summer gave itself entirely
and we accepted without consent

to ever grow up—and yet we did,
we grew into the shoes and the caution—
but sometimes the feet remember the grass
and want back that barefoot, boundless motion.
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