My Boy
These leaves are his jeweled prizes,
These leaves are his jeweled prizes,
stuffed into
his pockets with tiny dimpled fists.
He grabs at
them as they fall from trees,
auburn, gold
and grey—
they sparkle
in his wide eyes.
His rain
boots wade through castle motes,
trek through
mountain passes,
lead him to
higher ground in medieval battles.
He needs no
helmet, no shield.
No mother to
rescue him.
He hands me
a wood chip,
“It’s good!”
he says, nibbling.
We both take
bites:
mine, a thick
turkey sandwich,
his, a
dripping ice cream cone, with sprinkles.
It’s a good
meal
(as far as
wood chips go).
“Higher!” he
says
as he swings
past the clouds, past the stars.
His hair
blows with each pump of his legs,
my heart
thumps along.
I catch him
as he leaps,
and I say “Let’s
live here forever, you and I.”
He isn’t
hard to convince.
This was really neat! How very talented you are, miss Kels.
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