Why can’t I feel little anymore?
And look up at a larger person pensive, plotting question,
Something strange,
I’ll ask as stagnant air and stick skin of childhood pins me down to dirty, soil earth.
Why can’t I sleep soundly anymore? No marimba, piano, no chirp (from a frog)?
Young and ready for a nap mid day, some blanket, small and colorful,
Fluffy,
Fuzzy,
Something made to be held (as I was).
I forget that booster seats exist,
Taking me to tall white trees, passing streams, and high up orange canopies glowing saffron,
And I also forget that I can swear now,
But sometimes I remember play,
Imagination still here (if much different),
And the gentle thoughts of yesterday all blended.
Of staining mud, coarse but tricky, and morning dew on some sweet (ankle length) grass.
Of chasing something (or being chased), every time I stepped outside, game, curiosity,
Loud winds on tiny ears, buzzes, swishes, and bees,
All pushes to the harder ground the same.
Maybe I still Child, when I think of things that frighten me,
The empty night,
The crawling of bug prick on sensing skin,
Or something poisonous (like cough medicine, water, or nosebleeds).
Maybe I got older when I realized what I feared was being tired,
Since I now cry when I think of lullabies, I think, though I’m not sure what makes me miss them.
Since little I didn’t really care for sleep, for tranquil weight on a cushioned crib, boredom living,
Simply rocked me,
Sway by sway,
Into tomorrow.
-Jorge Biaggi