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Tip toe to the brightest room, but never to the darkest one-
The child fears all forms of darkness, and even a stitch of black.
He gladly steps under a crisp ray of sunshine, joyous,
And dances in a clumsy waltz, unmoved by eyes behind his back.
Without a single twitch, he climbs into the forests deep and dim,
To ride like the unbiased wind between the trees and hawthorns;
He hugs tight the dying barks of the ancient trees,
Admires the red of the lovely rose, unshaken by the prick of its thorn.
He dodges and smiles at the daises that tap against the morning breeze,
And waves at their yellow heads, as if returning their bows.
He continues under the shade of the tallest canopies,
And misses not even one of Mother Nature’s smallest shows.
Every star in the sky, and every frog or snail under the toadstool-
A miracle, a mystery, a joy to his tender heart.
He winces never at the slimy frog, or the grimy snail,
But gasps at the colors and the sounds that set them apart.
He stares at the skies, and endeavors to reach its depths-
To dip his tiny paint brush into the blue that hovers above,
And paint the colossus canvas that stretches across his mind:
And draw the picture of the children of the winter dove.
He looks in the mirrored beauty of all he sees, in the heart of the pond:
Pondering his next step, whether to enter the world in the waves of the one ahead.
He walks past the squirrels and the polecats that do not flee,
And he listens to the song of the butterfly wings and the bumblebee.
He leaves the vast spread of woods for the longer path beneath the blue;
One last look, he smiles and giggles, and whispers a small Thank You.





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