What We Knew Then
We were fluent in a language the grown world forgot —
the grammar of the hollow tree, the secret path,
the afternoon that lasted longer than afternoons last now.
Magic was not remarkable then. It was simply
the way light fell through leaves onto bare feet,
the way a found stone could hold the whole summer in its weight.
I did not know I was happy.
That is the nature of childhood's gift —
it arrives without announcement and leaves the same way.
What I would give to unknow the clock,
to lie in the grass again with the sky enormous overhead,
certain, the way only children are certain, that this would last.
artwork and poetry ©Stacy Stephens