Child
Is the hand against my cheek
The whispers of fairies’ wings
That send me off to sleep
Child
Is the forest where my bare feet caress cold moss
Where my bare skin meets the soft trickle of a stream
Winding through the green of summer
Stopping through the white of winter
But Going going all the time
Child
Is the eye unclouded
The imagination running wild
The dream within a dream
The peace that comes without trying
The chaos that comes with intention
The balance that henceforth ensues
But child
Is the knowing look
The incipient plague
The lack of the savoir-faire
Needed to survive
In a world that does not see a child
But sees something to be used
In this cataclysm of a life
This dusk without a dawn
But child
Is the cold dark room
Filled with noise and secrets
Dark circles under those unclouded eyes now clouded
A bloodied lip
A charred mind amid the ashes of a broken home
Clinging to imagination
Clinging to the hope
That God will listen
To these small hands