you are like
being a child, waking up
from a dreamless slumber,
suddenly awake
warm beneath the soft comforter
your grandmother sewed for your brother
the one faded almost to threads,
so white and gently patterned in the eight am sun
and fall has come
and the air is clear and dry and cold
but the sunlight is warm
so you cast off the comfort of the comforter
you holler silently down wooden hallways
you scatter loosely down broken gravel pathways
and out into and endless grass
up to the waist, with purple and golden flowers
all covered in wet night dew
and you sing the song of the soul
that is
the chilly tickle of water droplets running down your legs
and the slight scratch of the blades of grass across your ankles
and legs.
The song of morning
and of bright sunlight
and of fresh air and rebirth,
a song of things passing on
and new things beginning to
be.

you are like the small minutes
of infinite and beautiful and
humble freedom
that makes us all human again.