A Child's Sense

he sees strawberry chocolate skies
and sleeping dinosaur mountains
he sees each color hidden in white light
and little, bitty, baby bugs crawling in the grass

he hears the whispers of the wind, asking him to run beside it
and big, hairy, scary monsters stomping on the ceiling at night
he hears the melody in the clanging of the chain hitting against an iron fence
and his own lyrics in each song that plays on the radio

he feels the shape of each teenie, tiny grain of sand in the sandbox
and the beat of a bass drum pounding in his chest
he feels the soft, silky smooth of cold milk gently coating the back of his throat
and the fine thread of every fiber of his favorite blanket when he sleeps

he smells the yummy of the oatmeal cookies in the oven before they are even made
and the distinct scent of each flourishing flower he passes on his way to the park
he smells the smoke of the pretend fire he's made while camping in his room
and the wet of the rain tap, tap, tapping on his window

he tastes the green in the spinach he wishes mommy didn't make him eat
and the blind-to-the-naked tongue, tantalizing taste of water
he sees, hears, feels, smells, tastes the tastes of life with every breath he breathes
oh, to be a child again and taste, smell, feel, hear, see the things he sees