There is some type of magic
In the laughter of children
The way joy bursts – like its escaping their throats
The way a stare
Hides an imaginary world
Interstellar opportunities
Cloaked behind a spaced out glare

Adults are jealous of a kids wind
Blowing time like the precious it is
They are too, precious
Children in their young
Their strong

It is sacred – that joy
A plaything not left untouched
A favorite
The recipe for fond
And found memories
We grasp when aging.