When I am younger
the doors will open on garden plants
high above my head
and the world, a misty jungle
once again

When I am younger
I will hold the crystal ball
of some fallen marble
stretched out on the living room floor
and make fortunes
for the cat

When I am younger
I will build my castles
of leaves and wooden slats
and every songbird, ant, raccoon
and all their uncles
will be at my banquets
on the low pine tree branch

When I am younger
I will catch the sunlight
in my open hand like falling gold
and release it when the night falls
in the green glow of a firefly
with some television name

When I am younger
I will learn to dry my tears
in the arms of the world
as it sits on the edge of the bed
all-knowing and chestnut-haired

When I am younger
I will knock on the door of your old house
and you will still be there
waiting in the blush
of a late August morning