Orange, fire whipping flames,

Fan the red paper doiles of my heart.

Powdery blue streaks,

Stream through hazy purple sky's of my finger paintings.

Lush green grasses,

Trees of Hunter green,

And the moss laiden stone form a pathway...

In my pastel drawings.

Refridgerator art of days gone by.

The sandy coble stones...

Lie unsettled,

Forcing my ankle to lean and adjust...

Like the ebb and flow of the walk of  MY life.

What is important,

Is not from where I hail,

Or where I am going,

But to work over the stones with my feet.

Finding balance in my days,

Accomplishment in the process,

And joy in every wonderful moment I am alive.

It is feeling the moist rich earth under my feet,

Mud squishing between my toes after a summer's storm.

While reaching my arms high,

Waving them like branches of a tree.

It is letting my mind soar like a kite into the heavens,

And  gracefully pullled back down again.

It is in the reveling of watching kids make banana splits,

Especially when they get carried away with whipped topping!

Watching them spray eachother as if it were silly string.

Cold syrupy goo everywhere...

It's remembering my own growth,

Stepping into my fathers cowboy boots,

And feeling the top of them touch my bare naked butt.

In my younger years...

I ate green apples in the summer,

Simply because I was having too much fun at a friends house

    And didn't want to go home.

So I ate apples from wild apple trees for lunch and dinner,

    And stayed up all night with belly aches

    Only Santa could understand: All those millions of treats!

But I never let my mother know...even though NOW I am sure

    She knew very well.

As adults, we say...

"Wake up and smell the coffee!"

But when did we stop...

Jumping in huge water filled potholes...

Telling "fish stories"...

Running through the snow...

Fly on our imaginations...

And dream worlds only meant for kids...

When did I cross that line...

Become a "grown up"?

And how do I still retain...

Being a member of that elite club...


  "No Grown-ups aloud!"

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Why can't life be that easy...the smell of playdough, washing dogs for money, throwing newspapers, making red and green construction paper chains for Christmas trees...trying to hold onto an innocense, that's long lost:  Or simply never was.

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