Content to be themselves

where is the wonder of a child
who follows the clouds day or night
and imagines an answer to a question unasked
by a quiet little voice inside

who naps while the birds sing in the daytime
who dreams while crickets perform under the moon
whose smile is like sunshine in the middle of the night
whose tears bring in storm clouds at noon

who laughs at ladybugs and turtles
who studies walking sticks and inchworms
who chases butterflies and squirrels
who's comfortable with all of life's terms

who lifts the rug of grass
and finds a whole world to explore
who stains their fingers with wild berries
who climbs trees anymore

where are the fields we walked barefoot
where are the streams we could wade in
where are the hills where we laid in the sun
where are the forests we played in

who knew life would become a checkbook
that inventions would turn us to slaves
that we'd borrow instead of creating our lives
and struggle with the debt of ourselves

that loan sharks, police, and attorneys
and hustlers of all types and sorts
would rule us with fear and deception
and because we had coupons, we bought

but God save the children untainted
by the ways and the means of our world
and bless them with a peace that frustrates us
content to be themselves