The Morning Of My Life

In the morning of my life
the world was fragrant with
gardenia perfume.  Regal oak trees
stood as sentinels over my garden
kingdom where I played tag with fireflies
on humid summer nights.  Emerald green
magnolia leaves released great droplets left by
the late afternoon rain, an elixir that bathed all
it touched in the well-being of quiet contentment.

While nations warred and injustice built invisible walls
to isolate and impoverish, I laid on the warm summer
grass and imagined stepping from star to star, oblivious
to the obscene, provoked by little more than the
inconvenience of supper's delay, sheltered a
while longer from all that waited beyond
the garden gate.

In the morning of my life, I
chased fireflies and admired them
in their glass jar prisons, captives of
my pleasure, while others around
me made lemonade.