Nostalgia

Maybe it'll be a divine day
and everything will be alright. 
I'm ten-feet tall walking out the door
but come home feeling real small.
Holding on to you as close as I can, 
worrying if I even have another plan. 

All it is-
this force, this life, this size,
is a few rotted boards and overgrown brush 
where the sandbox used to be.

Summers were a brilliant blaze,
listening to the song of the gravel road, 
loping around the machine shed,
and gazing off into rows of stalks
into yellow and blue-dashed perpetuity. 

Now the rooms are too small
to account for what'd gone on there.
It hurts to visit, hurts to walk down the hall
and sit on the careworn fabric,
when I'm sure that I no longer belong here.