The Adult to Her Inner Child

Imitation poem of Anne Bradstreet's "The Author to Her Book"

Thou childish play-thing rampant in my soul,

A child would I orphan from worries foul,

Whom age does chide for acting so untame,

Yet turned o'er night a child into a dame.

When small, a child you were allowed to be,

Your days full of magic, mud pies, and tea.

You knew naught of the tempest 'hind closed doors.

Thy rev'ling my inner adult adores.

If one could return and amend,

I'd warn the child of what's to bend.

Lindsey Vernon