The child a blur of bright shorts

The child, a blur of bright shorts,

spun the rope in quick, neat arcs.

Her feet just kissed the ground, no snorts

of effort, leaving tiny marks

of effortless, unthinking grace.

Later, I tried, the worn rope caught

my shins, a hot, remembered place

where pain, a foolish lesson, taught

my adult limbs their sudden dread.

The rhythm gone, a clumsy slap.

My breath came short, my face grew red.

That easy self, it's off the map.

It seems some things, once truly known,

can simply harden into stone.