From primy youth
we do dawdle in a
perpetual spring
of our own creation.
All is budding vanity
to be grasped, tasted, and enjoyed
until it, quite suddenly, isn’t.
We cling to the belief
with pudgy primrose fingers
that, if only we dare try,
we could fly — soar even —
until gravity strolls
into the whirring room
of contraption and wonder
and coughs rudely — conspicuously —
and, inevitably, we are told
to let go.