My boy.


My Boy

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.

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