Every child is a poet
and for that I rejoice.
Imagine the silence
if no one listened to the bridges

of children’s words that swish and swoosh,
making confetti out of leaves, the Titanic
from a stick in a gutter, bellows full of petals,
even diamond whispers in the throes of loss.

Yes, imperfect adults carry
universes in words—
a poor imitation
of the crow and the lizard,

who live among sticks
and clouds. They create the music
only the very young
can capture.