Breathlessly, beyond the hill,

race to unexpected scrapes of snow

and crocuses spent like burst balloons

in spatter over the slope.

Childhood seems overrated.

For the power that sulks under roots

in the mulch you can milk with your fingers

and the burn of the blue of the sky

on the back of your neck

as you grab blankets of sunlight,

while splinters of grass spray your cheeks as you roll –

these jade, these weep away,

on the day you grip contracts or coins in your fist.

Fold these early days profoundly in your heart

so when it breaks, later, as it will

they’ll shout out, they’ll astound,

they’ll stream like angels on skateboards

into your drab skies,

searing the old laundry of the clouds to remind you –

you can dance with the sky your sole dress,

if only you’d wish it.

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