If I could go back to the playground of my childhood,

Would the sandbox still feel like a wondrous universe yet to be explored? 

When the sand runs through my fingers

Does it feel like the element castles are made of,

Or a slowly - slowly - emptying hourglass?

 

If I could go back to the monkey bars of my childhood, 

Would the smell of the iron and peeling paint on my hands be enough to propel me across?

Or would my feet drag on the ground, carving a path through the grass, 

Imagining swinging through jungles and forests,

Moving out of reach even as the bars move ever closer?

 

If I could go back to the tire swing of my childhood,

Would the sky appear as close as the ground below?

Is it still possible for the apex to thrill me more than any rollercoaster,

For my stomach to drop

While my spirits soar?

 

Perhaps I could go back to the playground of my childhood;  

I could reconstruct slides from the slippery slopes of my memories, see-saws where infancy is stacked against adolescence.

But with so many lingering uncertainties, the question remains:

Should I go back, if there is a chance, 

That I will not remember how to play in the playground of my childhood?