Long, lean and scruffy at the edges
Slinking at the edge of view.
We spend most of our time trying to replicate the wild while
Honing the edges, filling the tummies.
Jackets are zipped, hat flaps tucked in to scarves, all for nothing.
Running down the hill hats are tipped back, mitts flung to the side
Retrieved only when hot chocolate is ready.
Squishing you, my square pegs in to the rounded holes of adulthood.
It’s force of habit, waste of time.
Your songs of childhood, unfettered
Waft up, cling to the bare trees.