Scraggle-haired, red-cheeked,
grass-stained things,

running with wildflowers in
hand and mud underfoot,
shouting and stomping
and grinning, sunshine sliding
through let-down curls, all
missing teeth and ankles
showing beneath cuffs,
who sprawl crazily on park
benches, on dirt, on
chalk-ruined cement, faces
upturned to taste the rain,
who drop everything to watch an
airplane's ascent, a scarlet
fire truck, the scrambled
flight of migrating geese,
who seize mothers, fathers, aunts,
uncles around the waist and
hang on for dear life,
squeezing with affection
almost too ferocious to bear,
who wail at the butterfly smashed
on the pavement,
who scatter like autumn leaves
when told to come inside,
darting into the shadows,
teeth glinting wolfishly,
scampering into the boughs of
trees to hide with bated
breath,
who thrust their hands out of car
windows to tickle the wind,
who choke on laughter all day and
dream of dragons and stardust
all night,
who want the answer to every
question,
who are the embodiment of wild
sunsets and turbulent skies,
who haven't yet inherited the rust
of adulthood,
who chase pigeons in the park,
flower chains slung
haphazardly round small necks,
who dance on the sidewalk to songs
that exist only in their
minds, arms flailing, heads
bouncing, indifferent to
passers-by,
who walk the earth with wide eyes
and bursting hearts,
whose love could power a stellar
explosion;

Scab-kneed, angel-headed,
sun-burned beings, flushed
and bare legged, tearing
across fields of dandelions
with mad smiles and
outstretched arms:
a band of the best and
brightest creatures