next to the toffee tree

In my mind there is a small boy with a sickle.

He cuts at the golden waves of grain,

The dust of the chaff fountains up into the air and scatters the rays of the setting sun.

He has skin the color of almond wood

His rounded, dark eyes focus on the wheat, the wealth, the season of plenty.

He wears no shoes as he treads my thoughts;

I stand and watch in my black-soled sneakers

I stare at his face,

And wonder if it would resemble a mirror,

And why I always think I should stamp my face on my memories

Just because I am the narrator.