There is a lot that we forget,
so every year, December brings back the children—
the children of spring and shedding coats,
wobbly on new bicycles, eyes bright with determination,
the children of dandelion bouquets and vaulting in the grass.
December brings back the children of summer,
of racing barefoot on the beach,
of sandcastles, moats, and cold waves tickling ankles;
children of kicking soccer balls, of hide and seek
and of art chalked on sidewalks.
We might forget,
so December brings back the children of fall and crunching leaves,
of stocking caps and rosy cheeks;
of back to school and plus and minus and noisy lunch rooms,
of shining curiosity, of frogs and rocks,
of books full of volcanoes and hydrogen and oxygen and sailing ships.
And, never missing anything,
December brings back the children of the hospital,
the children unloved by parents,
the children on TV hungry in the thousands.
December brings back the children of tears and brave hearts.
We must not forget the children,
so December brings us the children of all the days of the year,
now the children of tinker toys and dolls ,
of robots and noisy games,
the children of ice skates and snow angels,
of hot-chocolate and floating marshmallows.
The world would cease without the magic of the children,
for us who are heart weary,
for us who are grown old,
for us who would forget,
every December brings back the children.