Descended from Icarus

Impetuous, we fly into the sun with fragile wings;
we always burn, but then, we get up and try again,
somewhat singed and just a trifle smarter.
Growing is a painful thing and every era
has known its own pain.
I am sitting at my ancient desk,
gathering wild strawberries into tin buckets.
The memories are bigger than my thumbs,
but the poems always seem to come out smaller.

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