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From my rocking chair seated at the window,
I recall a childhood memory of cloudless day,
a twinge of jealous emptiness now and then,
daydreaming and watching little egos at play.
Age is fantasy -- doesn’t exist for children;
not as it’s known in our adult way, that is;
only yesterday’s tomorrows really matters,
it’s a joyous majesty that gives and gives.
Bookmarks of fingerprints, lips, and noses
of faces pressed on Gram's window; mine.
Nostalgic flood spills over memory's edge
by a pavement-chalked hopscotch outline.
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