No one knows when their magic died.
Young children knew it best.
Their stick horses snorting
through their riders lips,
galloping faster than the wind
across prairie’s broad vistas
chasing buffalo or escaping Indians.
Their planes zoomed silent into blue skies,
launched from playground swings.
Summer days stretched endless hours
as clouds formed clear pictures
high above their prone pallet on summer’s grass
and an ant struggled by
carrying a crumb bigger than itself.
Young lovers knew it, too.
A brushing of hands stirred pulsing heartbeats,
hearing tender music—a song theirs alone,
and a soda shared with two straws was nectar.
Even grownups knew it sometimes,
their baby’s first smile predicted a destiny,
its first word, so clearly mama,
and there was Johnny’s first home run.
If only it could have lasted forever.
It’s waiting for vision to clear?