To Be Young

Is to be breath-taken upon your last breath,

Is to still recall the joy

of lying on your back, laughing, 

in the meadow.

Even when you will never lie there

Again

Is to sing out melodies

of dreary dreams, 

sailing into stormy seas.

Even when the words will be lost

Forever

Is to lose grip and tumble out 

of reach, caught by a bed of clover,

and begin to cry.

The columbine, bent around you, 

(Only after falling could I see their smile)

Begin to heal.

Is to scream secrets

into the waterfalls,

wishing to evade growing up.

When we already have.