Sometimes those lemons that are squeezed from life
can leave a sour taste in the mouths of children
and adulthood thrusts upon them less time
than they had before to play and dream.
What they wouldn’t give for some special words
to carry with them, to hold and treasure.
Like the attic trunk overflowing with treasure
immeasurable memories before life
became chaos, before silence was words
before the steely grip of a child’s
nightmares tangled with hopeful dreams,
tripping along with the angry flow of time.
Resilient are they, and know in time
the importance of what’s to be treasured;
tap dance on the devil’s schemes, dreaming
on pale blue skies, contemplating life
as only the wonder of a child
can bring. Chalk-dust scribble all the words.
When mystery meets meaning, say the words,
the ones that had been trapped in time.
Amber-bound fossils. Children
who once upon a time were. Treasure
every coo-coo-clock crisp of life.
Treat life not so lightly, but dream
of playground chaos. Dream
those now nearly sacred words:
Hopscotch, Jump Rope. Before life
intruded, adulthood stole golden time.
It is chalked memories we treasure.
Remember what it was like to be children?
So much leaves a sour taste, children!
So long since we could play and dream.
Dreams we carry, hold and treasure.
What we wouldn’t give for some healing words!
Adulthood has thrust upon us, taking time
to deliver lemon upon lemon – a lemonade life.
Why are children infected with life?
Why do our dream bubbles empty with time?
We search for lost treasure, gaining only words.