The light from childhood

shows growing up to be a lake
you row out to the centre of
and wait until you are bored
enough to look over the side
and see yourself changed.

Or it shows you running in the woods
until you forget that you are not the wind.
Eventually, you stop and see all
the trampled leaves under two tired feet.

When you were small, says the light,
everything larger than you was God
and everything smaller than you was a pet
that went into your pocket.

At one time, not seeing over the fence
turned all distances into fantasy,
so you walked in circles in the yard.
Later, light lifted you so far over hills
and seas, you were unable to return.

The wind that comes now from the once
friendly trees sputters your lantern
down to a fireless wick. And the only
face you see in the lake is the moon's.

Copyright © 2003 Ron Houchin All rights reserved
from Moveable Darkness
Salmon Poetry / Dufour Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission