I dream of deconstructing beaver weirs
layered dams of branch and mud
fiendish things set up by stealth
to drown my woods
and work to draw up plans,
a personal peninsular campaign
fought in the boots of wellington
besetting toothy bonapartes,
guerilla skirmishes to win release
of chokepoint water pools
allowed to stream again towards
the pond beyond its sapling fringe
growing up we know some barriers too,
thrown up to block our childhood path
casual injected freeze,
anti action dollops of impatient noise
thoughtless shards from adult tongues
that carry all the power
of their world, and leave us
with no voice to tell them no
unconscious joy leaching from
young porous souls, replaced by dust
to render us no longer fully vested
in our birthright gifts
oh we will feel creative pull
and try to move toward its warmth
each with our signature routine
to step around the wall,
with time and luck that sidestep waltz
will lose appeal, prompting us
to search out understanding,
mighty antidote to doubt
and let it heal our hearts
armored with new energy and joy
thoughts free to wander where they will
we ride the flow
there is a vast difference between thoughtful words to guide and tossed off criticism. as adults we often forget the power of what we say to a child.
March 9, 2016 at 1:02 pm
Kate, I don’t always comment, but I look so forward to your poetry in my mailbox!
Count me in on your campaign!!
March 10, 2016 at 10:59 pm
Syl, thank you, that is so nice. So, you got waders?? If so, you’re in!
March 11, 2016 at 7:48 am
I have spotted rain boots; but for
you, I would invest in waders!
LikeLiked by 1 person
March 12, 2016 at 11:03 pm
That’s vey cool Miss Syl. Deal!