The Child is poised
On the edge of an endless field
Crisp, tall grasses sway and wave
Cajoling the vivid wildflowers within.
The shy bright sprigs
Slide against the shifting sea of grasses,
And then coyly bend away
In the ruffling breeze.
The breathless wind skips over the tips,
The whispering is barely audible.
It teases the flora
And it teases the Child,
Tickling a place deep within that has no words or reason.
A child must run
When faced with a wide open field
Or even a long corridor.
The impulse insists
And the Child runs
Happily embracing the burst
Of brief careless freedom.
There is no destination or purpose.
There is only the running.