Thursday, 12 April 2012


[to Kristen] 

What is adulthood?
It is many things, but not
knee scrapes, shoe strings,
not paper crown kings,
not stone flinging shot-slings.

And slippery! Hands are troubled to cling 
to objects enduring,
(save, maybe to worrying
for what sunrise could bring.) 

Moreover, it gives so many once-held things
In pairs!
And dares it to pare 
bonded things
together once weld' 
in rings. 

Others, still, it weds.
No matter how foe-like,
it beds 
No matter how it stings.

[It is when the having of an ordinary joy
becomes a skill,
even an art of the mind]


My present joy,
Like a winged grasshopper 
in a July day field.

To you the tall grasses are grossly tall.
I see you leap, span wings, and fall
haphazardly to ground below.

Everything is large to you and up and close.
When the wind blows, it blows;
the sun almost too greatly shines;
the dew drop really glows.

The black bird can snatch you up in a blink!
How fast the link
to life is cut.

Your little life is spent looking, is it not? 
You have a season
to befriend the trees once,
maybe for a mate to hunt
a victory to flaunt,
defy an ought,
But you’ve not 
the reason.

For you, to live is to see- to search
to keep the mouth full- to chirp
into the wind.

I watch from afar,
aware of all the out-about dangers that befall
your kind.

I can not help.

Come I near
your wings’ll span with fear
and you’ll flutter away.
I’ll have to turn my back
til you come back.
(I hope you do.)

You will.

jordan dejonge

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