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