Welcome Home

I haven't seen
that old tree in years.
It seems much smaller?
Or am I just taller?
Maybe it's a trick
of the setting sun!
A memory mirage,
where all the large
and imposing things
are inversely sized
in reality.
Like when you sing
quietly,
And think your voice is
soaring.
A trickling stream
becomes a
roaring
river
in our younger selves.

And when we go home
again,

It's like we are
returning to the scene of
a lovely , golden crime.
Wearing the shoes of
a mighty giant.