For Coleton turning Sixteen

Sixteen is two digits, a One and a Six. A single Redwood pole stripped of boughs and branches next to the other numeral rising high, apocalyptic. Six, in the right light, is a clownish fiberglass Brontosaurus fronting a long dead desert town. 

You were born at the top of the One in a saucer shaped lodge. An amusement park ride, falling tower. Lowered so gently, you didn't recognize the descent. Now, you are on the ground. 

You exit the One, and walk into a windy world, lonely planet. The towering Six lists slowly side to side, the front flap waves like an inviting circus tent.

You pull back the canvas, enter a vestibule aglow in light. The air is lung-filling wonderful, and in a corner, a ladder rises up a bright shaft. You hear distant voices, some familiar, some unknown, all happy, undulating up and down like a cloud of Starlings.

You are about to ascend but notice a small table with a saucer and a filled teacup, steaming. They knew you were coming and have greeted you with a cup of Wisdom. Childhood's waking dream has passed. You will know loss. You will know sorrow, but never forget the weightless of Bliss. It will keep you afloat until the next sweet morning. 

Some say, "Reach for the stars."
But if the stars are not in your path
just leap into the obsidian
abyss. Terra Firma is over-rated.