how regrettable to be almost all–knowing, matured and wise.

after decades of life, how very disheartening

to be so cemented to one’s own existence, that sense and reason

become the forum to all who come, those unexpected guests

from the back alleys of my youth.

 

oh, but to be a stripling once again,

whipped by the winds, back and forth and any which way.

to be that youth facing the world

believing life is for saying yes, yes, yes,

to doors left open for the welcoming or the leaving.

 

how pitiable to have come to this stage in life,

so locked and rooted in one’s own reality.

how utterly mortifying to be so wizened with age,

one begins each day cognizant of consequences

instead of life’s many edges.

 

ah, but to be that irrepressible youth, unafraid,

tossing caution to the winds,

to be that youth who lives with erasable pencil # 2

instead of permanent liquid blue.

 

ah yes, I was there so many times.

it was there my heart got broken

and my poetry got written.

it was there I flew with wings,

without feet or sense of the ground.

 

why did I ever grow up?

or did I grow old?

 

                         fhk

                         1-3-02