Somehow the very young wake up each morning sure of possibility’s solemn warm embrace, pure of purpose in pursuit of joy. A new toy, game or a friend they will never lose— someone whose name is unnecessary, friendship drips like honey from every new face at that age— the stage sunny as July. So why do we reel away from joy? Shadows steal in and we forget how to employ ourselves in ways that frame delight becoming stars surrounded by night, lit by old flame, cold and far from aspiration, stagnating. Light radiates from us but we do not chase it. Forfeit awaits the plans of the child—but sometimes the old grow young. The child wakes to dreams, wakes and wills gilded and flung through space, a comet broken free of gravity and chased by its dreams toward the sun joy-spun and free.
This is dechnad cummaisc—a form from Ireland that is written in quatrains with an interesting rhyme scheme.
The first and third lines have eight syllables each
The second and fourth lines have four syllables each and end rhyme
The middle of line four rhymes with the last word of line three
Subject, meter (if any), and total number of quatrains are up to the poet
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What a delightful form! You inhabit it so naturally that the line breaks don't feel forced. I didn't notice the syllable count on my first read and thought you were just employing enjambment to make the rhymes feel effortless and draw attention to the lovely images: friendship dripping like honey from the faces of the young. So good. Also love how you capture the way children leave a park announcing they made a new best friend but not bothering to exchange names. So many details that feel exactly right. Thank you!
This is something!