The Child and the World
They gave a child a world
and he broke it.
He threw it in the air,
admired the way the spin
reflected the sunlight,
casting silver coins
on the nearby trees,
and he broke it.
He rolled it up the hill,
bouncing, scattering pebbles
and feathers of dust,
all the way to the top
under stars like scattered pebbles
among feathery, scattered clouds.
He rolled it down the hill,
trailing pebbles and plumes
of dust that settled like wreckage
of some long-destroyed mountain
and he broke it.
The child wept
and cursed the world for breaking,
stamped his feet and pleaded
with the broken bits of world
to come together and spin again
and he would never ever break it again
and the world stayed broken,
pebbles and stars and dust
and a child, seeding with tears
the rubble-cluttered seas,
tore at the claws of his memories,
but they would not let him go.