(On this Easter Sunday, I pondered how
children seemed to be born knowing
how to celebrate, and how many of us seem
to lose that precious gift along the way.
This poem was first posted here
July 8th, 2014. A blessed celebration of
life to all.)
SHE WHIRLED BEFORE ME
She whirled before me, guileless,
eager face straining for the sky,
light rain chiseling a smile
glorious on glistening cheeks.
She extended her arms full-length
in opposite directions, flat palms
and feathery fingers seemingly
practiced in the art of soaring.
Moments before, she broke loose
from the boughs of my umbrella,
to announce an eight-year-old’s vision
and credo: I gotta be free!
Longing to join the gambol
but hobbled by an arthritic hip
and the rust of years given
to caution and conformity, I settle
for silence and reverent awe
in the presence of this young
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