Who Then Cares for the Boy

I have heard it said that in the years it takes a man to grow wise, the young man dies. I think he is still there.

Who then cares for the boy…
      after he’s grown and graying
           after he’s tired and spent from the overwhelming responsibilities of the life he has grown into?

Who looks after the boy…
       when he cannot find the time or desire to care or find comfort from within?

Who will search for the boy…
      when he has traveled far beyond the comfort of his dreams
      and who cannot find his way back,
               who is secretly lost while all the others presume him
                to be old enough, after all, to fend off the waiting wolves?

Who will call out for the boy…
       when he himself has given up the quest and indeed,
                forgotten that he should be looking, be searching at all?

I will, cried the voice from deep inside the turtle-shelled drum
           I will, cried the voice, beat out the rhythm of hope.
                   I will show you the way to the boy
           Look, he is still there,
                                waiting still.
Waiting to play with your children and grand children
    Waiting to hold, to be carried, to love and be loved,
            Waiting to cry, to forgive, to share.

He’s there…
        Beat the drum…
                Show him home.

copyright - Thomas J. Dennis

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Indeed, the boy is still there, though perhaps buried beneath a thick blanket of "life."
I've long thought it very important for us to not forget the child within and to bring him/her out as often as we can and let them run about. Your poem is an outstanding comment on this subject.