Nostalgia diaries

As I touch my hand

to my lightly scraped knee

I see in the blood

my childhood come back to me.

All those skinned knees

are foreign now.

Even more foreign to me

is their why and how.

Somewhere in this trivial hurt,

a longing hides, ready to fill me.

Somewhere in that blood memories lie,

about how it used to be:

Running in the garden,

playing 'till the sun goes down.

Falling and standing and falling again,

every smile and laugh and frown.

Oh those skinned knees

meant more than I knew.

They're a reminder of a time

when everything was new.

They're a reminder of dreams

and that simple childhood bliss.

I see in this skinned knee,

a time I forget to miss.