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Where have the fields gone
and the hills running rampant
with gooseberry bushes
scratching at our legs?
My whole self sings
to be a child again
and sense anew
the newborn world
to my senses,
to find my succor
at the reddened bosom
of a columbine
until my cup overflows
with its nectar
to run with the will o' the wisp
and not feel the weight
of years past.
Ah me, that I can see
there are holes in the sun.
The once azure sky
fades to a pall
of its former hue.
The downturning
leaves me little more
than a memory of who I was.
We used to fly on the backs
of dandelion fluff
and roam with tumbleweed
as the waters of Babylon
still flow with tears
of paradise won and lost
many times over
in generations of seed.
Yes, indeed I see
there are holes in the sun.