I remember when I was going to be a hero
in those bygone days when time moved glacially
in a series of predictable events
towards a tangible moment of expected elation
and when I could limit spatially
between a hedge and latticed fence
all that I knew of God’s creation.
I remember when I could vanquish evil
with PVC pipes that doubled as swords
when my bed was my castle
and could will the thoughts from my head into real life
when the world could be explored
and require no further travel
than closing my eyes at night.
And I say a little prayer every day
for that strength to return to me
for a world that dared to hope
and a mind that believed the unseen.
Yes, I pray to watch the luna moths dancing upon an ancient hero’s grave
To see the harvest moon, crest the desolate fields, how I yearn for those days
How I yearn for your fingers, laced in mine, our reflection on the pond’s water
The image of an us we’d never get to see, because we never learned to be brave.