Toys in the Attic

The rising bubbles Chased by an innocence And nursed in a nook of time. The clock wounded by the aging hand That knows no limits and greets A childhood curiosity. Where wooden blocks were best of friends And sticks and stones are the gold of one's account. My toys of then are the toys of theirs. But here I play again in my retrospection —young again within the split of time. A sip of water and a small bite Are the elementary movements Of this wandering child that knows only Infinite possibilities. I am you and you are me.