A child’s universe is vast, led by senses —
shaping air into worlds of wonder.
A chair isn’t a chair;
it’s a ship, a mountain, a fortress.
A word sings, expands —
keys to chambers of poems and philosophy,
where even caterpillars stand and point the way.
Where you are a baby cub under the chair,
Ready to soar with the stars, pointing to Jupiter
-and when you land on the ground, you
taste dirt and giggle that a flower will bloom inside-
Everything is fluid, full, divine —
like milk dripping down your tee shirt, and not carrying one bit because you wanna go outside and play.
There’s freedom for the invisible, and
seeing it as the magical kingdom that it is.
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