I don’t think kids appreciate the beauties of the earth.
They aim attention elsewhere, I recall.
It seems to me my memories, from 17 to birth,
are made of fears, embarrassments, and all
ingredients for peril or ability to fly –
I didn’t often notice trees or birds.
No miracles of sculpted clouds arrayed across the sky
inspired me to capture them in words.

But as I added decades, it was like my vision cleared –
I saw I heard I felt amazing things.
The landscapes leaped to focus and celestial arts appeared;
my future shrinking made the present sing,
I think. I know existence weekly grows more dear to me,
but I can’t sell to kids reality.

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