Published in Scheherazade, Cambridge Literary Magazine

Eden after

Myths of golden ages magnify
to cosmic scale our own experience.
Childhood like a magic castle lifts
its drawbridge on our heels, and sends us forth
with such after-taste of bliss that all of life
is spent seeking that lost paradise.


Children have a world within our world:
a microcosm busy and secure
as bees in cushioned fastnesses of flowers.
Days are their coinage: weeks, months, years
mean nothing more than do the sun’s dimensions.


Summer meadows are their forests; trees
make caves for them, and leaves to flounder through,
while high boughs could be painted on the sky.
Butterflies alight at nose-tip level;
pimpernel half-hidden in the grass
is more a treat than daffodil or rose.


But would we change our power for their peace?
Do frogs regret the shedding of a tail?
Perhaps we polish over-much the past:
like antique furniture it gains a shine
when use has worn the texture all away.