the.child.at.the.stream

I'm trying to clean out my closet at my old house (a daunting task) and I came across a poem I wrote in high school. As might be expected, I have forgotten about most of the stuff I wrote back in high school. This poem was no exception, but as I glanced over it I found myself thinking "hey, I actually kind of dig this." I consider it a small insight into the person I was in high school -- a person I feel like I barely know now. It's nice to get back in touch with your old self every once in a while.

The Child at the Stream

The hair curled every so delicately,
as if an angel's hand was tenderly holding it in place.
The round blue eye's glittered,
seeing the world as it is meant to be seen:
fresh and pure,
innocent and welcoming.
The soft skin radiated,
shining with the light from the sun,
ever so gently tinted with a dash of rose.
The child played, splashed in the clear stream,
feet nudging the pebbles underneath as if they were personal friends,
and she knew all their secrets,
and they loved her touch because it was full of life and fancy.
The hair danced every so freely,
waltzing about the child's face;
a waltz so lovely and simple,
so angelic and carefree.
I watched from afar,
ever so dismayed,
ever so jealous of a life so simple;
a life of harmony, a life of color:
sunshine yellows and sky blues,
grassy greens and tickle-me-pinks,
the gentle and sincere colors that I always picked first from the crayon box.
My eyes sank ever so deeply,
as I would never know that life again,
never see the world again through a darling child's eyes.
I felt plagued and contaminated, suddenly, all at once.
I knew not of a life so beautiful,
a life so free from the smudge of charcoal blacks and smoky grays.
I watched with remorse the child at the stream,
whose face spoke every so happily,
whose lips smiled every so simply,
whose hair danced every so freely.