Climbing Through Childhood

White-pink buds of summer promises,
Those dark green curves of beckoning leaves,
They help filter the golden droplets that rain down
From a rich July-born sun, unmasked and unhidden,
Having thrown away the silk sheets of white, now
sprawled out amongst the blue.

The hours of play and climbing forming
as beads that trickle slowly down the sides of heads
and create lines on a dirt streaked face.
But there is no heaviness in the limbs or suggestion
of stopping. Everything is an adventure and the next
quest is the climbing of that tree in the garden.

Coarse bark means coarse palms,
Healing scrapes and purpling bruises
all from the long falls D
to the receiving              E  A  R  T  H            below, meaning
more of Mother’s scolding and sighing
because of stains on clothing as well as on skin
with “Holes in your trousers!” and “Mud! That’s tough to scrub out!”

But why should that matter to young minds
whose only thoughts are:

F          O         R          W         A          R          D

And always full of A.D.V.E.N.T.U.R.E.


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