At Our Age

When we were 

seven and eight years old, 

when the world was at our mercy,

we were nearly perfect.

We were running and shouting

and the world was full

of wonder and possibilities,

as vast as the nearest field;

as close as the starry-starry sky;

as scary as those wild things 

in the noise of night.

We could be notorious and contrary,

rarely did anyone get hurt.

Each day of traveling in the galactic realm 

always seemed better than the last.

The dirtier we were, the farther we had traveled,

in no hurry to get home or older.

From: Getting There

Unpub. MS p. 4