Clouds Of My Childhood

I sometimes walk these fields
and remember--
the clouds
how they were back then
full of promises, shifting
into things
that looked alive.

They were the stuff of stories--
Queens and hares
queer, silly things
yet somehow arresting
with a flicker of worry.

So many things
changing
morphing--
brewing slowly
so it almost seemed
like it was supposed to be that way.

I giggled.
We all giggled
at the tales he told--
down, down
the rabbit hole
to lands conjured
in the most strange of imaginations.

The clouds still hang in the sky
flowing, morphing
into whatever is needed at the time--
a hand of comfort
when he photographed my sister
naked
and I, as child beggar
with suggestion in my eyes and hands.

I do not wish to be Alice, anymore.

Yet she is me
and I am her
only older and wiser
and a tiny bit of dread
in my belly
should the Mad Hatter return
and try to offer me tea
once more.