I chuckled over rocks when I was but a brook
darted flower to flower humming all the while
sparkled in the morning light new-bedecked with dew
blended into shadowed stillness of passing clouds.
Out-waved growing wheat on summer’s flowing breezes
softly stalking ears through tall and tasseling corn
I’d sprout from every limb like I’d never leave
and evergreen I’d never turn and fall away.
Tadpole with freshly-sprouting legs still a-swimming
with no notion of hopping from my little pond
not yet breathing air within my watery world
no clue what changes maturation still required.
Old frog now on a rock the brook’s not chuckled yet
croaking instruction to the passing breeze of youth
snapping out whip-shot tongues at time-flies catching some
wondering how they went and got so all-fired fast.
Yet in my mind there’s waiting still a summer’s dawn
wherein a tadpole’s formless dream is but to play
all I have to do is stop it gobble it up
catch again the germ of life that’s going around.