A Young Giraffe
When you talk of boyish things,
as you do, it's not your voice
but an older deeper one,
as though somebody else had
come in when we weren't looking.
So much restless energy,
such spring-heeled sprezzatura:
sometimes happiness must be
expressed in terms of movement,
and sometimes you start skipping.
Your legs are getting longer,
your feet outpace your shoes;
you sway down the street like a
young giraffe, or someone
adjusting to earth's gravity.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, David
Callin would be pleased to hear them.