Barren

There is no wasteland

As pretty as this

Where ships lie in piles

On pale crystal sand

And taper to knees

Of children younger

Than I once was then

In circles of trees.

Where barrels and tons

Mean “snow day!” for us;

How does something big

Turn to only one?

It’s barren and fun

At the same damn time

While washed winds approach

To break off a lung.

When did something small

Become everything-

When it’s not really

That barren at all?