How is it that, just yesterday, I rose from my bed,
a child of such youth and vitality,
that no age can depict, nor can any number
describe or rationalize?
From the smooth brown skin of my arms,
to the dirt-roughened patches of my knees,
How can such innocence be expressed?
Fire at my heels, questions growing
in fractal like branches;
Where one is, there sprouts three!
Connecting and growing and reaching,
And like the brown and black tangles of
hair on my head, unkempt and carefree,
Curiosity never knew an end.
Content to stare and wonder,
or hide in dreamless sleep.
The innocence smothered
by the temptations of the world
and the errors of self.
The mind, once insatiable with questions,
Occupies itself with the convenience of today.
Would the child recognize me,
and I, the child?
Would we pass by each other
in ignorance? In relief?
Would she see something familiar,
or would I look down in shame,
Knowing that I’ve long since
abandoned the promises and ideas
February 1, 2013