Sometimes the days of fairy dust,
wishful wells and shooting stars,
love-filled ballrooms with chandeliers,
all but wither away and disappear.
Sometimes hours turn into days,
instead of going back to wishful ways,
and minds grow old and forget the sun,
and all forget those days we just had fun,
without worrying about a single thing,
and sing
like children carefree running along the ocean beach,
cheeks plump from candy and other sweets.
They’re not thinking of the world around
and their frowns always turn upside down.
Through the noisy, squished city streets,
smartphones flicker over rushing feet,
and children with wonderment—with galaxies—in their eyes,
try
to get our attention,
but we push them away or shove a phone in their faces,
instead of dreaming with them about magical places.
Sometimes months turn into years,
and soon we begin to face our fears,
of how much time we really have left,
to live on this world, this Earth we call home,
or of dying in our dark houses alone.
Sometimes the days of magical things,
put galaxies in a child’s eye,
and leave us—
people who have left all that behind
—wishing for a day,
to feel carefree again,
to become a child at play,
but we have given it all up long ago.
Sometimes the days of fairy dust,
wishful wells and shooting stars,
seem to wither away and disappear,
but they have always been near.
Sometimes in a stormy sky so gray
clouds will sparkle from sun rays.
By chance, a rainbow we will all glimpse.
What a magical moment filled with bliss!
All Rights Reserved Enna L. Foxwood
FOXWOOD FOREST 