Freedom come ...

Children beg to play

In fields made of pits

And stitched with sharp sticks.

So parents shudder, “Aaayy!!

Be careful, love...” as

The light lows and thins.

But the children laugh. For

Their hands can break a blade

Of grass.

Their feet can unlock the bonds

of sucking mud. Their tears

Can make giants kneel—in love.

Parents fret, freshly remembering

Their own quiet losses onto

These brakeless creatures

Who are finding, first-hand,

The world's sudden

Nature.

But old, slow persisters—

Wrinkled so their scars are hidden,

Warmed by gray mittens—laugh;

Loose throat-skins

Catching on their breaths,

They ask:

“Now, how did You learn

What it takes to survive?

First your bone broke,

Then your friend died.

Remember that? Stumbling on

To where life has its ends.

So let them rip,

And heal. Let them

Drop, and feel.

Let them go,

And come:

Too Fast,

Too soon,

Too Confident,

Too dumb.

Let them own that

Pain past the edge.

That view off the ridge.

That bitter smell, disbelieving.

That ache-sick-sinking feeling

Of loss and preciousness:

Let them find out every

Now is an end begun.

For owning that—owning that.

Owning that is 

freedom come.”