Childhood Becomes Impressionism

Remember the games we used to play? On rainy days under the gray? In the trees and through the stars, around the bends and up to Mars. Over rainbows and in witches' den oh, the things we could see then. On paths that only we could take we flew and galloped in grass we'd make. With annoying companions in our hand snuck into places hid'n in the land. In a world none but we can unlock full of magic we'd weave with talk, colors, solutions; the things we'd devise predicaments and love seen through our eyes. To see again what most cannot dream is simple for those who once have seen. And such as we've done can be woven again much samely through words can beasts be slain, and grottoes built up from the ground. Here our golden grove IS found. For what once was can be again in the world of words and key and pen.