By Tom
King
I liked my life when I was
just twelve.
Of all years before,
twelve was the best
I thought. I was out of bed at
crack of dawn
And fireflies lit the way home to my rest.
I climbed the brittle oaks
in my backyard
To perch so high I could
go no further up.
From down below the noise
of living arose
Like steam ascending
lazily from a cup
An arboreal prophet, me, sitting
in that tree,
Trying to see beyond
the boundaries of my street;
Beyond the abstract
reasonings newly gifted,
To one whose thoughts till
now were concrete.
It is well I could not
choose to stay
Forever twelve safe
from knowing tomorrow
The life I'd have lost, the love that came later,
The joy, pain and grief I would know.
© 2008 & 2013 & 2017
No comments:
Post a Comment