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.
Words with music 
Leave a comment