Warm September wind, sunshine,
manure drying itself in round piles
you can kick, and dissolve into dust.
The sweet smell of it, the same
as it smelled thirty-three years ago,
at Harold Johnson’s place.
I breathe in memories like air,
close my eyes and see them all
alive again–laughing, telling jokes
about how they wanted to come back,
When they die, as a young girl’s horse.
Everything is the same.
Everything is completely different.
More and more, I’m somewhere
between this soft day,
of this soft day some place else.