Running barefoot through waist-high                         
  fields of flowing rust and emerald                        
    doesn't seem that far off -- just                       
  a few calendars lying in the corner, really.              
There were trees to climb, then, and streams                
  of running crystal, good for skinny-dipping and           
    stone-skipping, and catching an occasional catfish.     
  Maybe they're still there now, but my eyes                
    see past those things. Or perhaps can't see             
  them, jaded by fine print and satellite-transmitted       
broadcast, and iconized displays.  Such                     
  is the annual curse we place, our penny-eyed ride         
    on an azure ball of dirt and water, spinning along      
its chosen path through space and time.  Another            
  circle-cycle, another book of rules and responsibilities, 
    another inch closer to six feet,                        
      an inestimable distance from yesterday.