Shelter From The Storm

Now and again, I remember the garden that was childhood.
In a fog, I sometimes sense what I never quite understood -
That watercolor dream of all things real and most that are not,
Filtered through the haze of dawn into a clouded melting pot.

The taste of the day was ambrosial nectar from a spring,
The dew drops fresh on the grass beneath my feet. And the bee sting
There and painful, was diluted by comprehension too deep,
All care beyond the touch secured in a peaceful sleep.

Mornings pass, afternoons come and go, evenings give way to night,
And beneath the stars I stand and secretly wish that I might
Gather up enough wishes, and dreams, and hopes, to fill a sea,
And paint them in a never-ending, mystical, fantasy.

Childhood was just a fuzzy rendition of time on my heart.
I watched the show but I never really seemed to play a part.
Like a sky clouded then blue, I am not what I was before.
Now that my mind has cleared, I can’t see the shapes anymore.

~ Daniel F Mitchell