My inner child has many wounds.
Innocence shed over waning moons,
Piece by piece as the earth twirled.
But years ago, there was another world.
A space made of sticks against a trunk.
Dirty hands, my face painted in mud.
Potions and brews under the big tree.
Chants and concoctions of earth and leaves.
And when the sun set, it stayed in embers.
Blinking orbs. Fireflies.
Lightning bugs lit up those nights.
Now I’m older. It’s September.
They sparkle again. I remember.
If those glittery lights have stayed alive,
Maybe a hint of wonder has also survived.