Locked in wood stocks
the world bound and wound up
             spinning at the whim of a child’s hand
an expectant finger
             waiting for a place to land.

             Like spearmen to a charging horse
the blow lands and stops it dead
a digit stalled sets the course.

In that space dreams are made;
             a poor facsimile of an immutable thing
                           quieted by innocence
                                        inquisitiveness
                                        inspiration
                                        imagination
             and thus made immutable again.

The world in a child’s mind is but a word
             until a place is named
         held down
   and claimed for their future self