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sweet bundles of joy
symbols of forthright candor~
blooms in God's garden

As we traverse through the bends and curves of weary life, how we wish to retrace our steps to the childhood days when we were so gullible- believing everybody and feeling excited about everything. Now I wonder how it would be seeing things through the eyes of a child and having a detour into those days of innocence and ease.


It would be wonderful if we can recoil to moments of the past when we enjoyed days in fun and frolic with nothing to nag or bother us. The joy I had as a child with my siblings and cousins often haunt me in my leisurely hours. Great it was to dwell inside the ‘house’ we built with twigs, planks and leaves and when we donned the roles of Dad and Mom and served our ‘guests’ 'delicious' food, instantly cooked with mud, seeds and wild berries. In our childish innocence, we used to bury coins beneath the soil with the hope of seeing them sprout and yielding thousands for autumn pick. During rainy days, we used to catch ants and lady birds and put them inside paper boats and set them afloat over muddy puddles left by rain.With what thrill we caught minnows, trapping them in towels spread wide across tiny rivulets and moved them into small ponds dug in soil and spent hours watching their movements. Catching butterflies, and keeping them inside glass jars was a pleasurable activity. Sometimes I feel how cynical we were in making dragon flies lift small stones on their tiny legs. 
Even now I feel there is a child sleeping inside me like a toad in hibernation. When it is too late, on certain days I am ruled by a passion to crawl out from my bed unseen and watch the moon from the terrace….Is it a child’s curiosity or is it because I have a poet’s mind? Childhood was a time when little things and small wonders could thrill us! When it rains outside and puddles are formed in the fields, how like a child I wish to splash in water even now. In a way, we are all children who for simple love, acceptance and appreciation do pine…

But to what peaks of joy, children get catapulted with mere trifles and silly baubles while we grownups remain ever at the bottom unable to be lifted up. Now nothing can move us into such exuberant bursts of delight! Nothing can arouse our curiosity as before. Is this what we call aging?  Or....

is it death of spring
or autumn’s ripe mellowing~
winter blasts sweep past



July. 14. 2022

Like a Child Poetry Contest
Sponor- Regina McIntosh
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