when i was a child -
each moment of breathless butterfly dances
brushed down my fingertips like so many
feather-light drops of stardust, twirling leaves were
full of mystery and strange fire-color and too
crackle-crunchy to resist
and the little stick piles were firefly homes, hiding spots of summer evenings,
and each tear on my mother's cheek was a small
wound that my kisses could heal.
when i was a child -
i had dreams bigger than the world. i would
save the animals from extinction, go to the moon, travel the world,
not thinking that growing up would make reality grow
over the tender places in my still soft fragile bones
brittle masks growing over an honest face
tangling upwards like overgrown roses, flowers lost behind the thorns.
i know fairy tales are for kids but -
they stick inside my ribs the way memories sometimes do
glossy, rainbow printed pages, full of magic whispers
teddy bears and small heroes
type too large for
me now, just a children's book. i wish my hands were soft and tiny enough to gently crinkle the pages again.
i wish for a child's eyes again.
if only i could see the dandelions as possibilities, not weeds
and the snow as strange and wonderful instead of
just a pain to drive through
if only, if only -
when i was a child
i imagined i would be a good person
when i was a child if only i could
have seen me now