Ten  


I think there is a magic age,
And that it might have been,
When you felt you were grownup,
Though you were only ten.
Cane pole held tightly in your hand,
You headed for the creek,
Barefoot with faded overalls,
Straw hat to shade your cheek.

Part of the fun was getting there,
While walking down the path,
Time suspended hung in space,
No need to hurry back.
Seated on the old wood dock,
A can of worms close by,
Overhead white fluffy clouds,
Adorned a bright blue sky.

But still the best was yet to come,
When you stretched out to rest,
Old Rover was your pillow,
As the sun moved toward the west.
And when long shadows told you,
Time to head home again,
That had to be the best of times,
When you were only ten.

©  Loree (Mason) O’Neil

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