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 |    10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
| The Perils Of Childhood Freedom I skipped over it. The way a creek bubbled up, blazing my trail in shallow wood, half past spring on weekends outdoors, mounting to summer freedom to explore unguarded, when they wanted you out, didn’t care where you were unless you weren't back for before a dinner yell — and dark insisted to them the sun visited another lost boy past the horizon. You could have fallen. I skipped over it, again and again, learning. And, if the sour truck came rolling up bitter gravel, you crawled from the ravine and skipped over it, until lying in bed, woke by a dream. It wasn’t summer: 13, 14 or 15, but driving his truck into the marsh, hunting and screaming, flashlights playing tag with snoring pine to find myself tethered to the sap… and skipped over it… until 40… bound and gagged… in a trunk of something speeding, fast. Brakes squealed, foot steps reported from telltale gravel. Too black to realize a lid lift, a world gashing silence free… and the struggle… I skip over. Water rush deeper than a creek, when I’m forced up, face a moon’s deflection… reflection on that ledge… a small boy bleeding… thick trails mixed with an eye’s creek… they screamed, ‘I wish you would’! Nope. I didn’t skip over it. I slumped. I didn’t find a ravine or the bottom of a lake. I woke to wake, eventually, skipped over it to teach a small boy the perils from ignorance of early innocence. 3.18.22 We could be traumatized by something our whole life and not know it, but feel it deep in those creeks we explore in dreams. |
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