Buncha meditators, Buddhists, and
free spirits, we walked in the sand,
danced in waves, sang fireside,
worked side by side
in happy labor, sat side by side
in locked silence needing no key
but that of returning to our
breath, to that one moment, the
only breath, the only moment.
Buncha kids there too, the cutest
things, sweet groundling sprites
with dirty faces and spirits so
pure, who warmed in friendship
and made plays for us, whose bows
to us in the great hall made me cry,
they caught the first light of dawn to
find low tide where the caves told
them secrets, maybe only one secret.
The youngest, age five, caught me
walking one day to the lodge, ran
to me, said I could see her moth -
Come, come - her eyes all alight,
she led me to a corner of the deck
then reverently lifted the moth
and put it in my hand, and I said I
hoped it had had a happy life, and
she whispered It never knew winter.
Written for The Mag: Mag 236 that inspired with the above image prompt.
My picture of the child in the poem is below.