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?

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