(t)old

When I was young
I was told,

wait till you're older.

It never made me want to wait,
but I knew better than to rush.

I was told,

you'll see when you're my age.

It always sounded like an excuse
from someone worn down by what they'd seen.

I was told,

it's too late for me to change.

It sounded like stubbornness
chosen because growing hurts.

Even then I could hear it.
They were describing themselves
and calling it the world.

I knew who I didn't want to become.

So I vowed to hold on to awe.

I held on with a grip so tight, my fingers locked
the way they did when my mother pried
the ColecoVision controller from my fingers.

I'm older now, by trips around the sun,
and yet, I can still zoom into the cells of a fallen leaf
until the pattern grows larger than me.

I can still close my eyes and find the stars,
the dust and drifting shapes that live behind the lids.

I can still take a deep breath and
clear the mountains on the horizon in one jump,
as if gravity never heard of me.

I waited, like they told me.
I've seen what they said I'd see.
I've felt the tired they meant
and the pull to call it wisdom.
...but I'm still changing.

Wonder only wanders
from homes that stop
leaving the porch light on.