I used to believe

That everything had feelings:

Favouring one inanimate thing

Over another

Would hurt the one left unchosen.

Of course I’ve grown out of that.

And yet…

At the heart of that absurdity,

There’s a kernel of empathy

So pure it hurts.

 

Would you wish to know

Or not know

The very last time you will do something?

Like glide on a swing,

Climb a tree,

Sit on a grandparent’s knee.

Play hopscotch with a perfect throw

Read comic books by flashlight glow.

Go seashell hunting at low tide

Snowflake catching, mouth open wide.

Build a bonfire to stay warm

Play in a puddle after a storm.

A random encounter with an old friend

Score the goal at game’s end.

Drop it all;  go rainbow-chasing

Feel the joy of the first robin of spring.

Skip a stone across a river

Glimpse a shooting star and shiver.

Read a storybook to a child

Slip down a slide.

Write a poem

Go back home.

Believe in things like magic spells

Fairy tales and Rivendell.

Take the mantle, become a princess

A wizard, a hero or an actress.

Hear the rumbled purr of a cat

Sweet smell of puppy breath; nothing better than that.

 

Tell

Someone

I

Love

You

 

Elapsing moments

Like shedding a skin.

Forget or lament

The old self within.

 

 

I remember, years ago,

One Christmas:

My parents gave me two new plastic horses

For my collection.

I pretended to be overjoyed;

I couldn’t bring myself to tell them

That I wasn’t interested anymore.

I don’t know whether my sorrow was for them,

For not knowing

Or for me,

For knowing

That chapter had closed.