So, where has the magic gone? Where did
all that jazz that burst
from seams as days encroached,
where I would sit and stare
at green needles,
elongated and hanging,
dropping at my mere touch,
as adult voices scolded my intrusions,
though I would always creep back
to pick up garish coloured rectangles
and play my best detective.

Where has this feeling, stemmed
by my time spent in chunks of hour
as various adults droned on subjects
that were needed for growth
(though I never truly
discovered the benefit contemporaneously),
with itchings of hope
at falling white flecks,
never fully materialising, but never
withering away, bolstered by the optimism.

Can we pinpoint the moment
it all subsides? We push it, or pull away,
or something that involves us
leaving it behind, like a suitcase
in a luggage cart stood lonesome,
our vehicle long departed.