Hello, moderate madness.

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It’s mad for you to say you are the pope.
It’s mad to give a second chance to love.
It’s mad to run in traffic, mad to hope,
And mad to wet your arms in summer rain.
I filled my red galoshes to the brim,
In puddles; then I wore them. I was six.
I soaked my sunhat too, its ribbon trim,
Spilled all around, and clung flat to my neck.
At six, no one will think to call you mad,
For reckless loving, drenching, muddy joy.
They call it freedom, like the fun they had,
Before dry Reason told them how to live.
There’s madness I’ll avoid: I’m not the pope,
But I will give a second chance to love,
And like those ribbons, I will cling to hope,
And wet my arms in traffic in the rain.