Today I am fourteen.
Perhaps, maybe, in my head, I have always been fourteen,
Or then again, perhaps not, perhaps I have been thirteen,
Or even twelve or eleven, but a younger age than
Fourteen is, and I have always wanted to be fourteen.
For some reason fourteen is an age of magic, when life
Is laid out, a never-ending buffet of chance and choice,
Experience and information, waiting patiently
To catch the watching eye, and to be grasped tight in sweating
Hands, gripped by clammy palms and held up to the fading light,
Examined and kept, or rejected, as fancy decides,
One more box ticked on that long, long list of things you have to
Do, to complete, to learn or reject, or plant in fertile
Ground, wait and watch through rainy days to see new life appear.
This is all of the tale of fourteen, the age or the words.
© 2ndwitch, 03/14/15
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