You (little children)
Your poetry is fashioned of gossamer wings.
Ephemeral cotton candy strings,
sweet and melting in the mouth.
Fleeting, breathing not a sound,
but whispering sweet nothings.
With cadence and rhythm swings.
I put no price on such things.
I drink and drink
to fill my soul.
And sing with both eyes closed
inhaling the perfumed rose
that is your being