The face looks at you across the yard,
cheeks round and post card pink,
innocent blue eyes staring at your old face.
Tears well up,
not for the innocence lost,
but the innocence you can not shed.
About this poem
When I took my psychological exam, a required part of becoming a pastor, I came out as relatively sane and stable. “The only thing,” the counselor said, “is that you are a bit too innocent about people. That’s going to cost you heartache.”
I hate the truth sometimes.