Childish

Atavistic pleasures, these: idly watching
The clouds roll by, smelling the odor
Of just-mowed lawns, trudging the muddy
Track through the woods to the waterfall,
Which, once so large, has shrunken
Gravely. Never mind. The acts
Themselves, the time consumed,
Reacquaint a jaded man with who he was,
Someone long gone, who harvested
Enjoyment from whatever came to him.
That ancient skill, considered lost,
Abruptly has returned.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 25 times
Written on 2021-04-19 at 23:57

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