Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Written while watching the children play in the backyard

Backyard poem
Dreaming children lie on blankets spread wide
in the sun dappled grass
The almost summer winds push the boughs over head,
an ever-dancing leafy canopy.
Borrowed straw hat, too large for small heads,
lies abandoned in the tall grass.

Small fingers find ants under rocks
and run to tell me of the wonder of it all.
Sticks make rifles for hunting wild monsters who live
in the overgrown hedge.
The hedge that houses fairies and birds and tiny blue eggshells
leftover from those spring babies, long flown.

Swing on your bellies, hands to the sky, a sprinkle of pixie dust dirt on your head
and you dream that you can fly.
Sit in the hollow left from backyard fires.  The one long grown over
with violets and clover.
Damp curls and tousled heads hunt in the garden.  The strawberries still too green
and clear water from the hose make for a glorious feast.

Chubby bare toes push into the earth,
grubby with dirt and adventures.
The cellar door, so good for a slide makes an observation platform
for the curious yet cautious ones.
Who watch the long, slender resident of the rock pile
sunning himself in his yellow striped suit.

The back yard is the

 Backyard poem 
Backyard poem

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