Children and Potatoes

Us four.

Under the rays of the hot sun.

Fresh-dug potatoes in hand.

Rubbing dirt,

Tossing into buckets.

So strange that we assemble in this way.

Yet not long ago, not so strange.

Strange now because we've grown, 

Changed,

Life moved on.

And we use to rub potatoes together.

But now, hardly ever.

Now one leaving.

Never the same again.

Yet would we want to be those four children,

Forever rubbing dirt and hauling potatoes?

Would we have froze time there?

A thousand no's.

What would be the joy in that?

What would be the lessons and growing?

What would be the adventure?

No, not to stay there forever.

But nether to stay here.

To go, not clutching the potatoes and the dirt,

But to grasp at the next.

The potatoes and the dirt were good.

And we're glad.

But what came after was good.

And what will come is good. 

Maybe never again four rubbing dirt,

But something else.

Something different.

Something good.