When Georgia was a little girl, she wore a red peacoat with brass buttons that always got a few compliments whenever she and her mother would take the walk from their apartment to the local shops.
“Well, if it isn’t little Hood,” Tony would say and he’d slide an extra inch of salami into her sandwich.
“Well, if it isn’t little Hood,” Jacques would say and uncurl a handful of petit fours from his pudgy chef’s palm.
“Morning, Red.” Sandy would smile indulgently behind her Daily Post and sometimes Georgia found an extra few lemon drops from the candy shop in her bag.
It wasn’t until she was fully grown that Georgia took a stroll into the nearby woods with her familiar rose-dyed uniform.
“I’ve met so many friends,” Georgia said, treading carefully over the foliage. She raised her head and let autumn fall with a grace that stole her breath away. Let the people in her memories slip through her fingers. “I think I’m brave enough to greet you now, Mr. Wolf.”
An old grain tower
Becomes Rapunzel’s prison
And a fictional rescue transforms into
An assurance that all girls become princesses
And all boys grow up to be gentlemen
Like the veil of a bride
Tender falls the night
Around your sleeping head.
The moon as your attendant
Watches with shy pride
While leaves tap on the window —
Harbingers of future courtiers.
To reconcile childhood to adulthood
One must kill parts of one to attain the other
But does the end of naivety mean the end of truth?
What is the new definition of happiness
If it morphs with each passing moment?
The youth knows only summer
And plays and frolics through the golden time
The man knows the fall and winter
And tries to smile as he prepares
The old one knows the seasons will pass
And cycle and pass farther than he can live
The world continues on long after we are gone
The wise mind finds comfort in this
And the child, under the weathered skin
Over the hills your little feet play
On the vale of peonies you rest your head
The dawning of the day lights fire in your eyes
And the deep velvet of night only gives it luster
Delighting in the cool water flowing through your fingers
You do not lament escape or loss
And share a laughter so freely given
That those who hear you ache
Reminded of who they were, long ago