Sweet golden field of my youth
(the only life I have known)!
Today the flowers are brimming with
insects' grace and travelers' leather feet;
both are walking into the day without a thought to drop.
Never have I chained myself to time but occasional that devil
has liked to lock me in a cell.
But a year has passed to see
another regeneration rising from
the cool waters beneath the spring leaves of passion.
I am thirsty, a bit undernourished,
and often times I turn my back on joy.
To be young is to be walking in a thicket of thorns
while searching for a single rose.
To realize la jeunesse is to run
into the forest with open arms as if
to embrace a lover.
Meditation draws on me this morning.
Fresh air of a new dawn
crawls out from the bedside clock.
The calendar blushes with the date;
it is unfortunate how it must tell my age.
On a night raft as the moon will rise,
my smile will rival that big glowing rock.
And for at least one "day",
a thousand hands will grab my arms
to run through the warmest fields I can find.