The time that I felt something,
Was a cloud of childhood mumbling;
A dismal day, no sun to be felt,
False cheer that my older mind would melt.
Five-years-old, away from my mother,
In a park 200 miles away from familiarly of others;
Urban edge, next to a field,
There's a darkness concealed.
Why was the world gray, and why was I alone?
And why at 51, am I still chilled to the bone?
What sense, five decades later? This head disease?
And will I ever solve the mystery of the trees?
