When the world is hard
Draw your fingers through the golden oil
The balm of your last childhood summer
Burns like the satisfying sting
Of a nail pressed into mosquito bite
The tiny crosses on your flesh—
there will be so many more to bear before you are grown.
You will forget the sugar-sap sweetness of melted popsicles,
The Kool-aid kisses in their primary colors
That swim before your eyes,
The delicate snap of stray crayons under your little heel
If these were the only thorns,
The only broken promises,
How much happier
Might you have been?