in time, each child will die, and open hands
to chances yet to come. each sheds his skin
and finds new shells, in layers bent of tin
and coal and wax. in time each body stands
the tests of wind and rain, the depth of pain
that can be felt by pulsing blood. the gore
of life that means we breathe, the writhing core
that means we stay; each not-still child to gain
his own idea of old. the rest is right
and wrong, and true and false, and left from fright
to seek his god where god cannot be found.
the new adult seeks sky and sea and ground
that he might learn to crawl again, and see
through ancient eyes that cry and can't be free.