There was beauty in our frail bodies
as we got older beneath the electric light.
We read things: philosophy, science,
comparative religion. Words coagulated
like curds, trickled down our throats.
We thought them meaningful,
nodded our heads with wisdom,
right before nodding off to sleep.
Woke stupid. The days were short.
The sun came up just to go down again.
Then our infant granddaughter came,
upset our orderly days and nights.
She is of an age when imagination
forms things in dreams and she wakes
crying. Sleeps again, wakes again.
It’s still dark but time for play she thinks,
takes up toys in the first grey light before dawn.
She had so much life in her we nearly died of it,
dragged our bodies to bed at night like grandparents.
But soon awoke, life flooding in. We began
discovering things, learning things, important things:
like how to eat with our fingers, touch beetles,
play in the bath, pronounce ‘mystery’.
Of course we don’t actually remember
if we knew these things before
when we were old and wise.