If I could touch those childhood moments,
when sunshine danced on morning’s face,
and sang of possibility, and abundance,
of optimism, expectation and simple joys,
then, like captured drifts of cloud,
or light consumed, fairy-floss of day, could,
would I re-capture, those fleeting times
when so much was imagined, and so little
carved in the stone of reality; when hope
giggled in ridiculous and unexpected mirth,
in the corners of established time, and reason
dragged frayed slippers across unpolished,
dream-rubbed floors, while curiosity waited,
with clasped hands, to have her wings dried,
spread wide and shaken in pure delight? Perhaps.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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