Mourning the Indoor Playground

When I was a child, each day beckoned us into the woods... where bronze pine needles cushioned our troubles... and the smell of pitch cleared our sorrows. The crow and the jay led us with chatter, shutting out the sounds of each day's grief. We lived in the shadows of spruce and maple. Watched silver fish dart in the creek.

I mourn that my own little children prefer an indoor playground... the comfort of a paisley couch cushion... the smell of old wood floors drifting amidst their joys. La Boheme or the Four Seasons or the Buena Vista Social club chatter around their play. They live in the shadows of a Tudor, with a lead-glass window. Watch the turning of a page or the waltz of dolls.

Oh, that the country was filling their blood, their imaginations, as it still fills mine. But, they surge into life with an urban gene pool.