Things I wish I didn't know:
How the cold, brown slush
Will spoil the snow
And the soft, white flakes
As they float from the sky
Are all the same
When you bat an eye

And the flowers
That burst so bright in Spring
Are not grown with water
Rather, the corpses of dead things

The worms we see each time it rains
Are not out for a drink
But instead dying in pain

Leaves in the Fall
Do not drop on their own
They are pushed from the tree
When they're too old for home

Your childhood sled
Only holds sixty pounds
And the mountains of snow
Barely look like mounds

Now you have to cook
And your mom's beef stew
Does not taste as good
When it's made by you