in the warm garden, they
run and harrumph and sweat and pinken.
fair skins in hot sun
hats pushed back, knees bare
can't reach to the trampoline; she hops fiercely on her indignant feet, wailing
until two pairs of just-bigger arms
lift her up.
together, they rise
bouncing high, higher, higher, as if to touch the vague wisps of cloud
that trail like bolts of fine linen across the depth of the sky.
they are laughing
their voices mingling as they chortle, one over the other
as they hold hands, then circle each other, gasping between their explosions of mirth
they are joy
my three glad and fearsome answers to all pain and travail and woe
and the roses are blooming
the honeysuckle, the jasmine,
and it is sweet, so sweet, with scent and beauty
in this disorderly, weed-grown garden
on this hot, bee-rich, bright spring day.
- Kathy, 8/11/11
This post is part of NaBloPoMo. 8 down, 22 to go!
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