After William Wordsworth

There was a time when I did not fear
the future that lay ahead of me;
I did not hesitate to go near
and never would I flee,
but ever-present were tears.

My mind was fresh and witty,
I lived forward in a dream
which to me never did seem
the likeness of a pity.

The pale brain sops with worry;
gooey reminiscence, recognizing
that somehow, it is always in a hurry.
It abates the trauma, finding
those years truly to be surly.

It was the last good year for innocence,
so often I think about the warm sun,
the way I could always have summer fun,
yet I’ve lost that company, in a sense.

It’s how the smell of sunscreen and sweat
annually toss me into emotional debt.