Oh, do not think that I am dead,
For children owe no debt to death,
But say my swelling life instead
Outgrew the turbulence of breath
And sought a larger atmosphere
In which to run and climb and play.
So if I hide and don’t appear,
Come seek and find me anyway.
No, not beneath the granite stone.
What’s buried there was never me.
That’s just a toy that I’ve outgrown.
It’s broken now, so let it be.
But look instead where once I played
Among the fields and paths I knew.
Just call my name, don’t be afraid,
But watch: perhaps I’ll come to you
Out of the morning mist that smokes
Like incense in the sun’s first light,
Or out of the shadows of the oaks
That slowly lengthen into night.
Or out of the quiet moon that sets
More softly than the falling snow,
I’ll come before the moon forgets
The little boy it used to know.
When treetops toss like stormy seas,
I’ll race the rain clouds overhead,
Or chase the thunder through the trees —
So do not think that I am dead.
I live as other children do,
Who run and climb and laugh and play.
So if at first I hide from you,
Come seek and find-me anyway.
Photo by Dawid Zawiła on Unsplash
Used by permission of the author.
David’s book, “Birds Only Sing to Those Who Listen,” is available for purchase here.