If we live over and over.
Come through the metaphysical rain
and find our houses again and again,
I believe our path
is the journey of childhood,
blankets and fevers,
enchantment and terror.
Our words are poems.
We draw pictures in the sand.
We unravel stones
and rearrange them.
We write love songs to our mothers.
Look down the roads our fathers go,
and mourn this age
too old for us.
Days too long without sleep and dreams.
It is not a crime to love childhood.
It is what we are.
Children of dawn.
Voices in the chorus of the wind,
dance of oceans.
We are children.
The Garden of Eden.
Leaf fall, and returning of spring.