Tennashoes

I retrace steps taken as a boy
A black asphalt “lawn” sprouts buildings
Painted lines and rounded curbs direct traffic
Once fertile Central California soil
Grows, not rows of tomatoes, or onions, perhaps corn
But row upon row of strip malls which do not attract bees
Or Monarch butterflies. I reach down grabbing a handful of that soil
A small oasis of earth surrounding an exhaust-ed urban tree
Particles slowly running through my fingers as I Imagine
With moist eyes, it’s the same dirt I once ran joyfully through
P.F. Flyers attached to sockless and surefooted feet
Free of pain, free of worry, free like the hot summer breeze
On a day long, long ago, when a wise old crow
Gray bearded, using a walking stick for assistance
Squawked, then said, “I told you so”