He's up the tree like lightning, to a height
that makes me gasp; he hangs there like ripe fruit,
as if the rocks, the creaking wood were moot,
as though to fall from there were only flight.
He's heedless, rushing headlong toward the street
behind a rolling car or bouncing ball,
exasperated by my panicked call,
the fright that cracked my voice and froze my feet.
He's beautiful and ignorant, and I
was just the same before I knew life stung,
before experience made dangers clear.
That's really why we so envy the young,
who can't believe we never try to fly--
who tell our age by how we've learned to fear.
1 comment:
lovely.
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