morning after

We were lucky bohemian kids living on grace and our own sense of morality. It gave us beds and food in our bellies while we pushed around ether like clay at the preschool table.Nothing was sharp enough to hurt us and we knew not to eat too much.
So we played, crushing our worlds in our hands again.
Never not far, the call to come home. The evening comes while mother’s rice simmers. We show up all dust, dirt- covered in the clay of the lives we’ve made. She pretends to yell, but we know her secret smile, while she scolds us to bathe. After washing our hair, our hands, our eyes, our feet, she leads us to bed and tucks us into new dreams.
So we dreamed, flying kites made of sweet morning dew, blown by the drone of the unknown

Ahh, to wake from a kiss on the head
A slap on the rump- we’re forced outside
With the sun in our eyes, joy in our sighs, we find one another
and we play
and we make
and crush the whole world in our hands again

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~ by ambur on November 8, 2011.

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