Stay seven until heaven
you little boys whochange your rooms again,
asking a million questions about
all that creeps and crawls upon the earth.
Those little hands,
still so soft, yet hard to let go,
oh you beautiful, trusting faces,
open to truth and lies
all to be sorted out later.
Taking off like
the Wright brothers’ first attempts,
wind ‘em up,goggles and scarves flapping
so un-stealth:
that will come later.
For now,
the bouquet of
wildflowers and
strange, lovely weeds
sit in the
mason jar above the
kitchen sink.
I sneeze and forget (again)
to check the glass before I drink;
wiping my face on my sleeve,
I’ve become one of them.
By Susan M.
