There was a time when I was good at poetry:
And candled things jumped out at me from
Nooks, and nooks themselves were magical.
When hiding things were only desperate for
A voice, a hand to guide them out of dark
And call for them on rainy afternoons.
When time alone was never time at all:
But fantasy writ real inside my mind
And friends I’d never had before arrived.
When talk was frothy, conversation laughed;
Where winding paths never wound about
Themselves enough for all of us, arrest in giggles.
When things I wished were things that were
When fear was but a lego plaything, and
Suffering the end of playtime for a meal.
When banter was a game of hide-and-seek,
And though I lost, again, again, and found,
It gave the fit of happiness a face.
I remember the time that I was good at poetry:
It feels so much like yesterday, I dream
About it constantly. As I walk, and talk, and am.
But that will have to be enough today.