Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”
Matthew 19:14 (NIV)


I will fly

The kite

Of grace


To die


In flight


It's the spaces 

Between buildings

That embrace me.

I'm aging strangely

These days-

Funky forehead hairs

And quirky animosities.

I've mastered shame looks

And angry stares,

The whole growing broken bit.

Grace, once great,

Now the lonely pillar I see

Of the great white weight

Of me.

Mark friends becoming dead

On our little liturgical

Calendar squares.

There's a stain somewhere

'Round the summer of '92

(Or was it '91?)

In memory like reverie

Yet fact, ever bare.

We left innocence there

With shards of shattered ceramic.

'Twas the great coffee mug catastrophe

Of a secretly speckled family,

Which now, I see

We share with all humanity.

All of us are scarred

By this universal scratch,

The deadened flesh dead end

Of the childhood patch

Of days,

The point oft forgot,

Or so thought,

By parents and guardians

So called,

When growing up

Becomes growing adult

And hard,

And getting by 

Bearded, secure, respected; 

The day we became

Those we blame.

The system we call innocence,

Simple simply to be,

Mighty miserable to keep,

Like a Christmas jam

In a hoarder's pantry.

The day of the great

Childishness collapse of '92

(Or was it '93?),

Like a gate to the crevasse 

Through which a teen must fall,

And the thick morass,

Which is, of course

Called making it.

Grace is the only kite

To fly us,

The only wind

Light enough

Or bright enough

To loosen us.

Would we all

But fly a kite

Once more, 

Like a child,

Into turbid skies.