behind shrubs and trees
Or so I read. I read they cry
under a blanket of clouds
and eat berries in the morning.
If decades were charms on a titan's arm
and lives fall off like lint time after time,
I guess to look for one you have to crouch
and turn over leaf after leaf after
Leave the dead where they've fallen
seems to be the call of retreat.
Those who cling to the chain
are always drawn to look back.
It's only natural, I suppose,
that lost boys seek mother.
The ultimate battle is the battle to cling
and not unfasten the self from the link.
Collateral damage is the left behind,
the craning necks, ever searching.
Why do mothers let go?
Boys will be boys, even lost ones.
The moon compels them to fly closer.
The wind is a caress on their hair.
Boys will be boys, even men.
Men will be boys, again.
