In The Land of Shy Children
Sept 13 2009


I was a shy child.
Adults were pant-legs
and sensible hems,
the tops of shoes;
hands reaching down
from the high plateau of grown-ups,
permanently shrouded in cloud.

Other kids
were quick-sand,
sinking under their scrutiny
confused by their exuberance.
While solitude was freedom
in our small fenced yard —
digging dams, and earthworks,
conjuring whole cities
from dirt.

Until I was abruptly dropped
into kindergarten,
its hot-house soil
overgrown with carnivorous weeds —
giggly girls in pink,
bigger boys
loud, snatching things.
And a teacher
whose smile frightened me.
What I best recall is nap-time —
transported by daydreams;
eyelids firmly shut,
the red-tinged darkness
keeping the world at bay.

Eventually, of course
I came of age,
found my place,
learned how to behave
in my small familiar universe.
The air up here is thinner.
The light
still penetrates.

Where I never stopped seeking solitude
to decompress, escape.
Digging away
in my small backyard,
a poorly tended garden,
a wild ravine.
Still inhabiting
the imaginary ziggurats
piazzas and arcades
the child once dreamed.