To Be Young

Is to be breath-taken upon your last breath,

Is to still recall the joy

of lying on your back, laughing, 

in the meadow.

Even when you will never lie there

Again

Is to sing out melodies

of stormy seas, sailing,

into dreary dreams.

Even when the words are lost

Forever

Is to lose grip and tumble out 

of reach, caught by a bed of clover,

begin to cry.

The columbine, bent around you, 

Begin to heal

Is to scream secrets

upon secrets, into the waterfalls,

wishing never to grow up.

Even when they already

Have