Ponce de Leon Finds the Fountain of Youth

In the jungle, in the clearing
There's an indentation in the land

And sitting proudly there is water
Maybe four or five tears worth of water
Resting calmly
Waiting


And an old man named Ponce de Leon
Abandoned by his men
Wandering in the jungle
Thirsty and hungry and old, above all, old
And tired, tired as well


He comes across the puddle
And he sits and dips his fingers in
And suddenly he's young again
And suddenly he's found it


He's found it


But the fountain of youth
Isn't simply a fountain of his youth
It's a fountain of all youth


And so now he's a child
In Burma
At the turn of the next century
Where Burma will be
A hub for technology
After teleportation is discovered there

Ponce de Leon will find himself
Playing with a ball in two different places
And he'll marvel at how detached he feels
Despite his newly extended presence


And so now he's a child
In Tokyo
Eight hundred years ago
Grass as green as emeralds
Covered by opulent snow

He's never seen snow like that
Or maybe he's never seen snow at all

He forgot how much he missed
The wonder of not knowing
The majesty of naivete
The brilliance of looking at something for the first time
And hearing someone say what it is

And now he's a child
The first child
Waiting for himself to grow up
And he feels alone
Total isolation

And because he's the first child
He's also the first grown-up
And so he's both at once

And he's never felt more like a child
And less like a child
Then he does in that moment

For the next thousand years
He's all sorts of children
Happy and hurt, joyful and abused
Young for two days, and young for a lifetime

The last of the children is a little boy in a high chair
Watching his mother bake bread
And clapping his hands together
Saying--

'Yes!  Yes!  Yes!'

What a wonderful word
The first time you say it

'Yes!  Yes!  Yes!'

. . . . .

When he opens his eyes
He's sitting in the jungle

His face next to the puddle of water

Some of his tears have slipped into the puddle
And now it's hard to tell the difference
Between the magic and the malaise

He'll stand up and wander a mile or so
Before he comes upon the camp of his men

They'll see that he has a few less wrinkles
That some of his liver spots are gone
And that the limp he used to walk with has vanished
And they'll ask him if it's true

Did he find the fountain of youth?

And he'll say--No, I couldn't find it.

He'll tell himself he dreamed it
That he dreamed it all
And that the small signs of his reversed aging
Are merely the results of rest
And the naturally therapeutic air of the jungle

But in his pocket
There is a small, melting handful
Of Tokyo snow