This is a poem I wrote for a creative writing class a couple semesters ago. It’s not quite finished but i thought id share ‘cause i was really proud of it. Do be kind.
In spring, before the water returns to the wishing well,
children play at the statues feet.
She stands high above them, unwavering but kind.
Her face is simple but beautiful like one in an old painting.
Beneath her on a faded bronze plate read the words
insieme viaggiare per il mondo. Together we travel the world.
The children race back and forth tagging her toes
and dropping leaves in the rusted misplaced drains.
She watches with one hand outstretched as if to say
“ be careful young ones.” Urging them to listen.
They do. They are the only ones who have not forgotten how.
As they dash around and through the empty pool,
in circles and scribbled, zig-zag shapes,
their imaginations transcend their vision
to grander, wilder, and farther reaches.
They imagine they are wild things in far off worlds,
growing tall with giant callused feet and furry, clawed hands.
Around the statue the strangers turn to jungle trees,
rocketing upwards to impossible heights, disappearing into the sky.
The steps become mountains
layered in the distance, turning purple and blending with the skyline.
Each one is topped with a boiling volcano
shrouded in steam and cotton ball clouds.
On the world stretches for miles past valleys and nations
as far as their imaginations will allow.
The pond behind the patient statue turns to a treacherous ocean,
the royal blue of kings and queens.
Only the oldest and bravest of the young wild things
dare to cross and take the crowns.
Deep below the waves, what were weeds in the pond
now become tentacled creatures inhabiting the savage sea.
Snatching at ankles as each bare foot quickly retreats.
The passing canoes carrying lovers and tourists
change suddenly to armada’s of warring enemies,
captained by pirates and crewed by mythical monsters.
The young wild things remain on shore
watching as the battles wage atop the writhing tides
and their dangerous foes advance closer.
Above them the statue still stands in frozen motion
a bridge between their minds and the concrete paths.
She is their totem, their declaration of home.
The certainty that no matter how far the travelers adventure
into the mountains and seas of their minds,
or if the perils get too close,
the comforting warmth of tender hands to hold
is never farther than just outside the wishing well.
