It’s here and it’s tender

like new grass

and I’m almost afraid

to touch it but I want

to lie down and sink deeply

into a cool dark rest

away from the bold sun

and strong words

of people pushing into the week

like freight trains, dirty and unnecessary

and almost always forgettable

in their sameness.

I’d like to hum and watch the sky

and feel my edges drift away.

The voices across the fields

mostly quieted.

A few low sounds of cows

and frogs and a faraway laugh of a woman

at the window doing dishes.

.

Her skies were open and dark

with bits of light reaching her

like summers from long ago.

.

Looking at the night sky

embers from the fire blending with stars,

a sparkly soup of millions

of laughs and cries and shouts

forming bears, birds, and chariots.

I can’t remember if I had a wagon.

Maybe I could ask my mother-

but she doesn’t like remembering.

I know she buries a lot in her Tupperware

and when wetly, it’s like pushing

with my legs on the downward arc

on a swing. I can almost taste the dirt

of the playground. I can certainly hear

the silence of all the hours spent alone

carefully imagining what I would need

to carry with me to be a grownup:

blankets, paper, pencils, candy,

a sweater, books, tea, toothpaste,

rings, a hat, a camera, band aids,

and whatever would fit in my wagon,

if I had one. I have a house now

with all those things. I made sure

my children had a wagon.

I also have Tupperware and a tendency

to bury things I try not to remember.

I wonder if I pay enough attention

to the hope of sunsets and new blooms.

Maybe I could ask my daughter.

stretching like the creek

across miles

limbs achy and tired

.

a story pushing

against wind

in smallish circles

.

morning’s lonesome bird

sings “let go”

to a rolling mist

.

to land somewhere soft

listen to a slowing heart

wherever home is

Buffeted above the middle ring

like a trapeze artist,

she waits for his strong arms

to take her to a fantasy world,

but he’s pumping his arms

drinking coffee at a counter

thinking about the miracle of bacon.

Their plans coincide in greasy abandon.