What miserable children we were!
Forgotten are the stains of miscreance
The nimble pirouettes and cloudy days
Pressed against a decisive pane of glass.
How we waited hearts resolute
Eyelashes palpitate, lips aflutter,
Neglected fingernails hammering
A nocturne composed explicitly
To punctuate our impatience.
These are not the moments
That plague us in maturation
An inconvenience seldom spills over.
I remember most that which was
Unspeakable and that which in passing
Might seem ordinary if not for joy.
I do not remember boredom
Though it must have preoccupied me once
And in occupation abducted
Many precious opportunities for fun.