Childish things

all children are artists
said Picasso
they create because they must
dancing unashamedly
in front lawns and living rooms
tumbling into piles of raked leaves
swishing out snow angels
and proclaiming them perfect
and of course, they are
where and when does it all change
does it happen slowly
our atoms of creative expression
evaporating one by one
until we are adults
or is there a defining moment
now I put away
those childish things
not knowing what we have lost
giving it up voluntarily
even eagerly
embracing jobs and mortgages and 401(k)s
can the genie come back
or does the bottle
no longer exist
for the leaves are damp and dripping
the snow is dirty
plowed into ugly piles
and we have forgotten how to dance
how does it even feel
I wonder
I cannot