Remember when the grass tickled our toes and we screamed at the critter crawlers that dared invade our space;
Remember when we saw the world through a smaller lens, only capable of two emotions, how gasps were really a big gulp of fresh-tasting air;
Remember when we were elastic—our muscles expandable, able to bend and curve and pull and run
and run
and run
so far away we didn’t even—
Remember when we didn’t know what pain was, when we confessed our love with the conviction of infants, latching onto what was safe, easy and warm;
Remember when promises were dandelions, something we could give freely and never take back, before we realized they were made of glass;
Remember when webs were for spiders, and not the sticky mess of lies we cradle in our laps, forgetting we fed our monsters. 

Process

I wrote the first draft of this poem during a Friday Night Salon in April. The prompt was to start a piece with the word “remember,” and instantly, an image of children running around in the grass came to my mind. The bones of this piece did not change much from draft to draft; however, I did carefully reword my word choices and sentence structure. The poem practically wrote itself—all I had to do was catch the words on my paper quick enough for them to stick.