The Kid

He writes his first story at eight.
The words trip over each other,
rife with mis(s)pelling
and grammatical (,) errors.
But he captures something
even the most celebrated authors
in history cannot.
Besting Borges,
Cervantes, and Chaucer,
he captures the spirit of youth.

Lacking labyrinth or epic quest,
there is indefinitely
more possibility: in the prose
itself, in the characters
represented, in the landscape,
however familiar it is.

And more,
watch in a year or two;
different placement of
the comma, evolving language,
new inner landscape
destined to germinate like
a newly planted seed.

Why is it we celebrate the developed
but not the developing?
Yes, this child never experienced
the powerful exaltation
arising from abjection
in pitch-black nights, sad shadow
in an expansive plane of existence.

But he sees this darkness
around him and, more importantly,
gets there somehow.

I may not be wise myself.
I possess no accolades collecting
dust on some lofty shelves.
I hold no advanced degree.
And yet I live and listen to everybody's
imperfect masterpieces, willing
to give a kid a place next to Borges,
knowing both epics hold keys to
unlocking mysteries of this untamed
jungle.