I’d like to preface with a claim
I can’t particularly support:
That kids and grown-ups are the same,
But kids play games, and grown-ups, sports.
The rules don’t change, and nor do we,
But somewhere in there, life adds stakes,
Great stakes, as tall as any tree,
Bequeathed with grace and well-placed whacks.
Thus hammered, we meander, trip,
And jump at distant thunder while
Ignoring hairs that start to crisp
From looming lightning overhead—
The camera flashes as we smile.
Our life’s a life-long exercise
In missing forests for their trees.
We fill our chests, rely on eyes,
And trust the little each eye sees.
A man stands in his kitchen and
Beholds the backyard, while above,
His daughter spies a far-off land
(What wise old Noah missed could not
Elude the vantage of a dove).
Her small feet patter in the wake
Of those tough soles that came before,
Unsure if they’d made a grave mistake,
Leaving home to walk a distant shore.
I think of them beneath outcropped
Jungle, unsure if I’ve been tricked,
For I feel I’m home, and I drop
My knee. I know when I’ve been licked.
I mean, really, how grown are we,
To boast of such a massive change
As five or six feet up from three?
Can depth stand substitute for range?
In time, so many have grown up,
So few gone out—including me—
A wolf that came to dread its inner pup
And human stakes and restless trees.
They say the sky’s the limit, but
Guess what? A circle has no end.
Look left, look right, look up and cut
The sky with strangers who may turn
Out to be your long-forgotten friends.
Although we wonder at a plant’s
Great height, is branching from its stalk
Not braver effort, slimmer chance,
Reaching out, not up? (Pardon the
Anthropomorphization, Doc).
Don’t know developmental stages,
All of that oral, phallic stuff;
I’ll take tundras over entendres,
Because I find them beautiful,
Which is, for me, enough.
