Holding truth
When I was a child
I held truth in my hand.
It was untamed and it was wild.
This truth of man.
No matter the letters
They all spelled true.
Effortlessly it all was true blue.
It was all so easy
And all the truths were true
With care or with distraction
And no need for a thank you.
When I was old
I look at my hand
And see my youth holding truth
That I no longer see
But forsooth all blessed
By what is meant to be.
Now I am young again
And dwell upon the word, “when”.
When did truth fluff the pillow of my hand
And again lay down in no man’s land?