the poetry of Charles Fry

23 February 1996

little children

"And when he had said these words, he wept,
and the multitude bare record of it,
and he took their little children, one by one, and blessed them,
and prayed unto the Father for them." (3 Nephi 17:21)

Remember those days when we, too, were little children.
When the world was simple, yet so amazing;
when we really understood life and played so hard so as not to miss it.
Fences, it seems to me, were there solely to be climbed;
beds, to jump on; shoes, to protect my feet from rocks.
Back then the world was so close --
if I climbed a small hill and stood on my tip toes
I could almost see the other side.

Yes, those were the beautiful days when everything meant what it looked like.
When words were still new, but more important was how hard you smiled --
or how many tears leaked out before you tightened your eyeballs.
And yes, it was hard then; you had to be brave and courageous,
get up when you fell down and run inside to clean the blood off.
As I remember, Mama was the queen --
if she hugged me and said it would be all right then I could smile,
cause she would be the one to know.

For a moment, I thought those days were gone.
But now within my heart, I am convinced that they are back again;
though the fences might be bigger, and the courage harder to find.
But when I search in the depths of my soul I find the same undaunted hope --
and it stands up straight, looks me in the eyes, and asks why I've forgotten for so long.
I bow my head and close my eyes --
then standing on my tiptoes and straining to see, I can start to make out this new world,
which was so quietly hidden behind the small door inside my heart.

Copyright © 1996 Charles Fry