FIELD TRIP

We went where the alfalfa grows, 'cry the beloved
country' Alan said, felt breeze when butterflies hovered;
so many places cry, transition, don't stop my happiness,
some itinerant fool said that he just couldn't care less.

We lay under a tree in summer with wheat blowing,
you had your moments, do you remember them owing
your diary, could never be erased, page after page,
and pressed like dried flowers into a bygone age. 

Grandpa made us look into a hedge which was absurd,
we said: 'What's that?' He said: 'It's a petrified turd.'
My brother gave me a piggyback, all my money fell out,
his wavy hair and good looks were what life was all about.

Sunflowers were my height, wonderfully bright before fall,
whenever we went to the fields - they were all magical.