Young Mind
Barely six years old, when he talked
to the evening sea, to the moon and the stars
yet, I am without doubt that in yesteryears
I had and enjoyed the very same passion
It seems an appreciation at most
and I’ve spoken about my own in the past
so I have had great time, flaunting it
I had and enjoyed the very same passion
If
hardly have I pushed the brain
to whisper awhile, this so-called writer’s block
is not a big deal. Oh, there he is, sitting
Head slightly bent at my father’s table
I read, by heart, every word that comes out
through his pen. And, in his young mind---
I feel once more, the muse I loved, glowing
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