has come for my young daughter now.
Years ago, that dazzled girl was me
who found him, crying, on my bedroom floor--
enchanting boy! And I gave him a kiss
and he grinned and coaxed me off to Neverland.
His smile pulled me in, and he needed me so.
I darned his socks, did spring cleaning; he built
a house for me, mossy, small, and red,
and off he went to fight pirates-- I had
an island of boys, but none were quite like him.
Our life was filled with laughter in the sun,
great games we shared. At night, I lay awake
and stared into the darkness, thinking; he
breathed softly on in oblivious untroubled sleep.
When day returned, together we would fly.
Young and free, his beauty caught my breath
and kept me captive in his endless games
until, one day, I knew that it was time
to feel the solid earth beneath my feet,
grow up. I had to find my way back home,
across the oceans: I reached out my hand
to him and asked him to make the journey with me.
But he would not give up his days of flight,
adventure, freedom-- all of life to him;
he would not follow me. I swallowed hard
and, pushing back the tears, left him behind.
He said he'd visit me, but though I watched
for him, waiting at my window each spring
until I knew I should not let my heart
expect him, he never came. He forgot me;
in time, I too taught myself to forget.
And now I see her, breathless, laughing, my daughter.
She wants him to pull her over the window ledge
and out into the night; "He needs me," she says
and he nods yes and takes her hand. I turn
my head, as he shakes dust into her eyes
and up out of the nursery she flies.