SIPPING INNOCENCE

SIPPING INNOCENCE

Letting go of balloons.
Pink and red rising,
finding the sunlight and fighting the wind.
Simpler days,
dream soaked nights.
Fruit never that sweet again.

Turning around, turning away,
hearing the sound of running
and it’s your own feet.
It’s not a yearning
that inspires these recollections;
but an aching for those moments
when your eyes were smaller
and a little brighter
and your brain was still growing.
As you counted
your fingers and toes
you laughed with
discovery and satisfaction.

Caterpillars ate the green.
Butterflies pranced from petal to sky.
And sometimes after it rained
worms contorted from
the edge of the sidewalk
to the center of concrete.

One day, older children
passed on the secrets of
catching frogsā€š and feeding squirrels.
Everything else mom and dad
tried to articulate
with the help of
picture books and TV cartoons.

Was it lost or never owned,
the clarified song whistled
soon after birth?
You clapped along but
when you started to dance
the waist and what’s below
moved desire into survival
and recognition into time.

The moisture craved
had to be supplied
by another’s willing tenderness.
It won’t be long before you brood,
wondering why you’re dwelling
on that part of your past
when each thought was new.
Is your darkness too fierce
or your daylight so hectic
that you now must remember
how it felt when you first understood
blood is beneath the skin.

Copyright held by author-1995