Newton Was a Child Once

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.

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