we crawl beneath the bed
to the other side
through the tall window
into the leafy embrace
of the old old elm.
there is a wad of dust
on the elbow of your shirt,
the smell of decay
and polished furniture.
a winged seed spirals toward the ground
are we made of the same stuff?
we children whisper urgently
behind the door left ajar
about childhood matters with no answers.
You others are wiser than I
and I remember in this place
soft is wiser than clever.