Stay Wild, Children

There once was an old, blind, deaf widow who lived in a meadow. She rocked on her front porch from sunrise to sunset, whispering and bantering to the hollow shells that walked the dirt trails. She spoke of worlds fallen to ruin and she spoke of legends perceived as truth. She spoke of science and man’s disbelief, and she spoke of God and man’s lack of faith. She spoke of poetry as sweet as Hermes harp strings and she spoke of ill cursed tongues that dripped poison and spewed venom. But most of all she spoke of children beyond the eyes could see. Wild children she called them.

Wild children that roamed to and fro carving out paths for those who would take their stead. Wild children parched of splendor. Wild children who wandered for wonder. Wild children who danced in the forest till all the creatures stirred to play. Wild children with loud boisterous voices that carried on the wind forcing the air to whistle their tune. Wild children with big, small, long, and stout feet clomping, stomping a-pound the ground cementing their claim to the earth.

She spoke of full extended bellies and empty convex swollen bellies. She spoke of lost lands and seized lands. She spoke of wars of valor and battles of ego. But most of all she spoke of children beyond the eyes could see. Wild children she called them.

Wild children of no-mans land, because no man knew of where they came from or who they were kin too. Wild children that fed off the ground’s blooms and blossoms. Wild children who drank from cool outdoor springs. Wild children who left fragrant musk in their trails. Scents of dirt, jasmine, grass, cinnamon, and orange, filled the air, drawing noses to the air to take in the odorous aromatic secretion of freedom. “Stay wild, children” the widow would say, as she raised from her rocking chair and let evening have the day.

There once was an old, blind, deaf widow who lived in a meadow. She rocked on her front porch from sunrise to sunset, whispering and bantering to the hollow shells that walked the snow glistening trails. She spoke of love beyond the grasp of despair. She spoke of life only experienced in death. She spoke of deaths only experienced in life. She spoke of the winding trails, and the straight paths imprinted on the journey of life. But most of all she spoke of children beyond the eyes could see. Wild children she called them.

Wild children who danced in the rain. Wild children who swayed in the breeze just like the leaves. Wild children who talked to the trees. Wild children who swam with the stream. Wild children who broke and changed with the seasons. Wild children who built mansions out of sand. Wild children who talked to animals. Wild children who played like animals. Wild children who acted like animals. “Stay wild, children” the widow would say, as she raised from her rocking chair and let evening have the day.

There once was an old, blind, deaf widow who lived in a meadow. She rocked on her front porch from sunrise to sunset whispering and bantering to the hollow shells that walked the sodden trails. She spoke of gardens lush with roses, lavender, and catmint. She spoke of people lost in shadows. She spoke of people lost in reflections. But most of all she spoke of children beyond the eyes could see. Wild children she called them.

Wild children who lived without bounds. Wild children who lived beyond the land’s bounds. Wild children who lived without fear. Wild children who greeted the day with a mischievous smile. Wild children who met the night with a playful jeer. “Stay wild, children” the widow would say, as she raised from her rocking chair and let evening have the day.

~ The End