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There is a place, the same in every city.
People rush down a busy street.
Each story separately intertwined,
all agreeing not to notice.
Each afraid to be jarred into the present.
On the faces masks of resignation
worn to hide the fear just underneath.
Each with something to sell
that even they are no longer buying.
Suspicion runs deep
Capturing time, the child’s face stands alone.
Trust, wonderment, joy, not needing to understand. Clinging to its parents arm,
wanting to be set loose, occasionally daring to let go.
Finding true amazement in a rock on the sidewalk
or in a leaf that has blown in from the trees
we plant downtown to prove we still care.
Herds and hoards have passed these simple treasures,
but none have stopped to pick up something
they did not know they needed.
What if someone saw?
What would they think?
What would they Think?
Believing they are defined, separated, judged and categorized
by the looks they receive.
To great a risk.
These treasures contain a magic when remembered.
The gift of stopping time.
When seen through the eyes of a child they can reflect back to us whatever we
are looking for or dare to look from.
How we long to look from this place again.
People rush down a busy street.
Jamar |
