This child again

listens to the echo,

keeps calling,

speaking in quiet tones,

when once, the world was large,

now no one really knows.

~

This child again,

on sunny mornings,

at the crack of a new day,

would venture out,

seek new horizon,

fresh spruce and damp soil.

~

This child again,

when death came calling,

would feel the confusion,

recognize a brief derision

yet, early on would move again,

to a sweeter notion in life.

~

This child again,

would claim a spot,

in the playground line,

seek out an identity

with friend and foe,

who test their mettle.

~

This child again,

might ask for less

when in a world

their dream shatters

only to find a need

to live a little better.

~

This child again,

cried on the curbside,

while just beyond their reach,

could pain and grief appear,

only through a lens

of narrowly drawn mind.

~

This chid again,

suddenly aged,

became the child’s father,

or mother, wherever

time began the song

of reflection in our soul.

~

This child again,

does recognize patience,

while navigating a world,

that soon left behind,

some natural innocence,

a rite of resilience.

~

This child again pines.