In The Summer

In the summer
we used to take our mason jars
with the holes in the lids,
down to the bog
where we'd chase the lights
that flew in the night,
catching them, one by one.

We ran through the mud,
the grass and the moss,
with our shoes that lit up
whenever you took a step.
And we ignored the streetlights,
and all our mosquito bites,
because they marked the time to go home.

With our chubby fingers
and our starry eyes,
we searched for more
than what we could learn in books.
Imagination, of a different kind,
an opening, of a creative mind,
we wanted more, more, more.

In the summer
we claimed what was ours,
with a young tenacity
and an innocent strength.
And even when our mother's called,
and our nightly adventures were quickly stalled,
we were still children.

We were children.