Woodstock Summer

We grew up in the sway of colors,  

bohemian whispers stitched in denim,  

bell-bottoms grazing the dirt roads,  

the dust of a thousand lost highways.

We listened to voices like prophets,  

gathered under a rain-swept sky,  

patchouli thick as a memory,  

guitar chords threading the mist.

And there we were, each of us bright,  

with beads dangling like tiny worlds,  

skirts spinning in endless spirals,  

all of us singing the same song.

We wore rebellion like a jacket,  

cut-off denim as soft armor,  

the sky a ceiling of open arms,  

the ground a stage we danced upon.

Years stretched like those endless fields,  

but somewhere in the mud and music,  

we found the bones of ourselves

a truth that never quite washed away.