When I was a little boy
Grandma had said that kind of thunder
Was taters rolling off the wagons in heaven.
Like memories I hear the last heavy breaths
Of a dying summer roll toward me.
A time once meant for hunting but now for books,
The heavy clap of power and authority
No longer a signal to cower under sheets.
As I slip into early adulthood
I realize the world stays the same.
It is only I who change.