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.
Copyright © Nic Mit | Year Posted 2008