Younglings

Younglings run up and down the upstairs hallway
causing my mugs and tea cups set atop my fridge to tremble.
Momentary images race through my consciousness as I dream them
with halos of holly and twigs, crowns of leaves,
long sticks and action figures and a stuffed pony
being whirled over a little imp’s head like a helicopter. I hear

Little Child, I Believe

Little child
In your wonder I believe
When you see a hundred moons
While there is one

What We Want Most

Revel in the scars

still bleeding out for attention:

Begging for mercy to no one,

our voices echo as empty seashells

lapping at our tormenters’ feet.

The Playground

Walk up the path, slowly at first

then trot, skip, hop and jump

On this

off that

in and out

up and down

round and round and round and round