The Wanderer

By Rowena Conahan

There she goes,
chubby knees in the mud,
 
     (Don’t get dirty!)
 
small, dimpled hands
waving in the rain,
 
     (or get wet!)
 
fingers tenderly
rubbing petals against
her rounded cheek
 
     (And don’t pick the flowers!)
 
She doesn’t know yet
that bumblebees are sharp,
that the snake is an enemy,
that some plants are invasive
and must be regarded
with suspicion.
 
She is free to believe
that all of our neighbors
are friends
 
to be held in reverence,
 
that every bird is
a miracle
every cricket chirp
a holy song
in a wild, grassy neverland
 
every secret, dark tunnel
‘midst the tilting weeds
a passageway
to wonder.