Something in my heart
threatens to break.
A child will always pick up
what’s beautiful.
The child will watch the sun
fly past all day.
A child weighs hours
by the weight of shells and marbles,
and buries dead birds
with honor and compassion.
My question is,
does my youth
understand my old age?
Does my youth understand
new truth better
than my old age understands
old truth?
I run to tell
what I see new,
to someone else,
through a window,
under rain,
in a flash of lightning,
picking up a penny
for the beauty of its face,
everything with awe and wonder.
And when the sun goes down
which grain of sand
falls through the hourglass?
Will there be another
to fall in love,
to watch clouds build up,
hold dead things
and blow life in them,
and remember
everything I heard
from the day before,
to write new poems
in the new time
from its words,
and tell my old age,
it’s alright
to be so young?