this wind

the children run
in circles as the leaves
rise in cylinders
of wind,
fresh and cold.
they are bugs with
wings clipped
trying hard to rise
above the playground,
brimming with strange
happiness of what
life can be.
not knowing yet what
love is, what
joy there is in small
things, the vast
array of pain and pleasure
still unknown
within in them, but
they run, they circle,
their joy is
immeasurable,
they know that something
is about to happen
in their world,
something that lies
beyond this playground,
this wind.