In the garden I knelt as a young boy,
with dirt-caked nails that dug deep in the soil.
Searching for neither coins nor toys
that would take away my childish coils.
Instead I search for the worms and birds
Who whispered to me secrets of their tiny world:
that if you listened closely to the hum of the earth,
you would learn to fly across the universe.
Now I kneel before the ground once more,
grasping for the soil until my fingers are sore.
Even if I sit still and watch the flying birds,
I still cannot hear the hums nor the chirps.
            As I grow more but my days grow less,
            I cease to hear the whispers of innocence.