It was supposed to be
a day where the sun tickled the freckled lashes of the eldest little golden haloed fairy
dipping toes into the muddied pond waters with the flickering flashlights in fog silver of minnows
Suckling at her toes like fresh bait and the painted webbed tattered silken wings covered in earth
forgotten in her haste to laugh at the world’s attempts to destroy what it means to be ‘such a free spirit’
caught between a maelstrom and a volcano and everyone elses words like wild roaming mountain goats
bleating defiance to ears far more interested in the inquisitive tone of a younger sibling
a day where the sun tickled the freckled lashes of the eldest little golden haloed fairy
dipping toes into the muddied pond waters with the flickering flashlights in fog silver of minnows
Suckling at her toes like fresh bait and the painted webbed tattered silken wings covered in earth
forgotten in her haste to laugh at the world’s attempts to destroy what it means to be ‘such a free spirit’
caught between a maelstrom and a volcano and everyone elses words like wild roaming mountain goats
bleating defiance to ears far more interested in the inquisitive tone of a younger sibling
And it was supposed to be
a day where the youngest tanned skin beneath the single shoulder buckled overalls boy laughed
head shorn like a sheep’s at the turn of the season, burning beneath the summer’s cruel kisses
kicked mud at the faerie with reckless abandon of a yelling mother’s voice – just car horns in city traffic
Learning how hard a frog like fresh cut mango slips between his fingers to startle the school below
Not a single care of what it will mean tomorrow or even an hour from now, caught outside of time
and the dying of youth with the shake of a single tambourine and the school bells irritating alarm
a day where the youngest tanned skin beneath the single shoulder buckled overalls boy laughed
head shorn like a sheep’s at the turn of the season, burning beneath the summer’s cruel kisses
kicked mud at the faerie with reckless abandon of a yelling mother’s voice – just car horns in city traffic
Learning how hard a frog like fresh cut mango slips between his fingers to startle the school below
Not a single care of what it will mean tomorrow or even an hour from now, caught outside of time
and the dying of youth with the shake of a single tambourine and the school bells irritating alarm
Maybe it was supposed to be
remembering how to unplug the brain from the digital age of noise and dial up modems
Long enough to remember birdsong not on loop from a 10 hour playlist
When the single pluck of a guitar string is joined in the awful off-key voices of far too much liquor
and the firewood scented arm sliding around shoulders with an offering of another kindness
To embrace the threads of friendship that seem as sturdy as primeval stone temples buried
Practicing antique rituals of the condition known as human
remembering how to unplug the brain from the digital age of noise and dial up modems
Long enough to remember birdsong not on loop from a 10 hour playlist
When the single pluck of a guitar string is joined in the awful off-key voices of far too much liquor
and the firewood scented arm sliding around shoulders with an offering of another kindness
To embrace the threads of friendship that seem as sturdy as primeval stone temples buried
Practicing antique rituals of the condition known as human
Even that it was about learning those baby steps again, how
to be within the glow of light
touch of spirit’s flame spreading through forest and the feather breasted cry of the hawk in lazy circle
and the stench of old wood and fresh rain after winter’s cold finally let go (and thusly, melted)
but not about the one who chose to be absent, the one who stopped fighting years before for the souls slipping past that cusp of innocence into the cruelty of life. No, never about the one who wasn’t there, but the ones who were.
touch of spirit’s flame spreading through forest and the feather breasted cry of the hawk in lazy circle
and the stench of old wood and fresh rain after winter’s cold finally let go (and thusly, melted)
but not about the one who chose to be absent, the one who stopped fighting years before for the souls slipping past that cusp of innocence into the cruelty of life. No, never about the one who wasn’t there, but the ones who were.
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