The moments are rare, <br />but when the mower is silent <br />and the hammer and nails <br />have joined the drill <br />and other tools in the garage, <br /> <br />my eyes can get hell bent <br />on pursuading the rest of me <br />they see not a man enjoying <br />his golden years, but the child <br />the man once was. <br /> <br />It's a brief insight - <br />but when I'm allowed to see, <br />it's a treasured glimpse <br />into a life I wasn't privy to share. <br /> <br />Today on the lawn <br />I saw a young boy, <br />a precocious lad of perhaps six. <br />His hair was tousled, <br />both barefoot and shirtless, <br />tying rags to the tail of a kite <br />then running with the wind, <br />delight oozing from every pore. <br /> <br />Then just as quickly <br />the vision was gone. <br />I was left staring in awe <br />at my gentle giant, <br />so comfortable in his old skin <br />and merely flying a kite <br />with our grandson. <br /> <br />Once more I am reminded, <br />there is no difference <br />between a man and a boy <br />- only the price of his toys.<br /><br />C.J. Heck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-price-of-his-toys/
