I met my teenage self the other day,
She stepped out of the note-books that I'd kept
And looked at me accusingly. Except
In trivialities, there was no way
I'd played the part that she had meant to play.
Hers was a mind unwilling to accept
That dreams could fail, or people prove inept,
Or good intentions suffer feet of clay.
My struggling protestations seemed uncouth,
Contrasted with the simple clarity
With which her innocence expressed the truth.
The only sign of progress seems to be
That whereas I admire my clear-eyed youth,
Her understanding couldn't stretch to me.
