Inside the circlet of children,
called on all sides from jungle gyms,
is my picnic table, buffeted by wind and thoughts –
ants of distraction crawling on
pressure-wood process.
I take some joy from the air of shouting,
and color it here, bleeding through paper
like a fat blue marker.

This exuberance seems tempered, though –
not a “Hallelujah!” but a reflected “yes….”
It passes through waxen ears,
graying brain, and fingers
gnarled from experience, oakenly,
leading the backs of roadmap hands.

08/29/2002

Posted on 08/29/2002
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt