I remember you and I used to play in the dirt which makes this world whole.
You and I used to know how to pretend,
or maybe we used to not pretend at all and that's what made us so perfect.
I recognize you amongst the many.
Growing lonely in your world of play things and penny candy.
Your softness, like birds caged for their antics; the prison now a home.
I see you in the reckless direction of everything I’ve ever fought for or believed in.
I see you still in the field beside the house, an exalted fabric of green on blue, and God there too…
All the answers we wanted in simple things, like the zealous union of weed and flower.
I want to tell you that there are people who find beauty only in broken things…
Before it’s too late, and pull you then from the diluted pain of our losses.
And tell you, the voiceless, to borrow mine.
It is that of a woman, relieved of the heavy husk of childhood, intending to heal for the both of us.
You are not to be ashamed… For healing is the seed of hope.
And a seed may be small, but as it is planted in the earth,
It is not said that it is rootless and stem less.
It is not condemned as immature and underdeveloped.
It is instead stared at in wonder.
Because for the length of time it takes to get from seed to bloom, to death of the flower…
It contains it’s whole and complete potential…
As do me and you.