Why did we have to grow
out of the simplicities of childhood,

when our every “Why?” was clever and cute –

their answers enough to send our curiosities

scurrying to other minor mysteries,

like elephants’ trunks and ant hills,

crimson clouds and fireflies,

puppies’ wet noses, candle flame and shooting stars?

All so long ago.

Our whys these days
come, perhaps, not from curiosity

but rather from disappointment,

anger and frustration.

The betrayals of business, politics,

religion and relationships,

the insensitivities of distance, silence, change;

the bluntness of truth and reality


the cruelties of dyings.

Why does “human” have to mean so much unknowing?

Why do we have to grow away

from questions that have answers,

from picture books and easy certainties?

Why can’t knowing why the sky is blue,  

leaves are green, hugs are warm

and life is made of love

be sufficient?

Why do our whys have to become