Paul Allen Lupien
What happens to children grown old?
Do they still exist,perhaps,in some other dimension of time or being?
Are they still findable there-
still laughing at clowns,
screaming shrillily at summer splashes,
shivering with blue lips that joyfully tremble
with the newness of a first felt winters' snow coldness?
Do they yet gush with beet redness from embarrasments
of imagined dignities lost after running-falls
or so very personal secrets revealed
by the callousness of Big People who never understand?
Do they yet,somewhere,steal away to their unknown hiding places
high above or deep below the average plain
where the Big People live?
(that plain of plainess-playful not in deed or in thought-
that of even headed dullness which waits for them-
children dashing head longingly towards this
inevitable future levelling)
For they do fade from our view
as yesterdays' light
as tiny ships overwhelmed by oceans,
precious seconds eaten up by clocks,
devoured,they become memories.
They no longer breathe among us,
nor do they awake to new morning promises of sparkling adventures.
But do they ever really cease to be?
Such as these must live on yet
in some secluded moss soft green,
where smiles are instantaneous and heartfelt,
where tears sprinkle moments with quick showers,
watering all the life around them,
summoning comfort,demanding love
and then lulled to peace by the knowledge
that they are small
and completely deserving of absolute protection.
For they must yet be
as nothing which created such innocence
would ever will it to end.
Somewhere,all the children must still play their hide and seek.
little hands on tiny giggling mouths-
they are hiding