The joyful games of a youthful boy (or girl),
Simple pleasures, easily done,
Gained from play in freedom’s whirl,
Completed in the afternoon sun.
Goals and thoughts of a child,
Easy fantasy with make-believe,
Kingdoms and castles in fantasy wild,
Not a serious notion to deceive.
Time’s ebb and surge like a tide,
Washed clean the fantastic domain,
Here the adult could not truly reside,
The real world was just not the same.
Farewell to the short dreams of youth,
Joyful bliss, but no earthly touch,
Adults have, ‘tho, only part of the truth,
And, miss the whimsy joy as such.
But come, sit and rest a moment,
The dream’s not dead, only dormant.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.