Beyond the scent of first being
lies the dreamers journey,
cobbled streets of imagination,
where youth rises, celebrating
the passing of innocence and
building mountains of desire.
It is like the unfolding of a flower,
only briefly gifted, but as the child,
so beautiful in its simplicity;
knowing it only has to be,
has no burden to carry,
save to be cherished.
There is an interlude then,
a relentless slip of time,
often mistaken for the moment
‘twixt seventeen and seventy;
a bargain struck without hindsight
and sealed with a monthly paycheck.
They are the years of brick upon brick
the uncertainty of crossroads,
captures on canvas, bedtime kisses,
of laughter, breeding, salted tears,
the leaving of love, of forgiving,
one moment seen, but never to be again.
And then, in the air, there is rain,
silver teardrops of memory
that fall in metronomic cadence;
as the old, unfettered by the past,
become ghosts, still dreaming, as
the newborn child becomes the man.