That seashell white.
That clear space.

We are all innocent.
We will always be innocent,
that place inside us that sings,
that wonders,
that can’t make sense of unkindness.

That place that didn’t mean our own unkindness.

There is a space for our young child
we need to protect so that she/he may flower.

The flower that risks so much,
without knowing it is risking
to be open and delicate.

Perhaps the blossom itself,
it’s own effect on our senses
is what causes the world to leave it be,
except the honey bees and humming birds,
kissing and propagating.

Our young child will grow,
find the wisdom in boundaries,
learn to protect

Yet our innocence remains.



Blessed in gentle play.

This, our most sacred self.

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