That old man working the fields outside
His old, windworn house.
His granddaughter in her light blue dress
On the swing in the garden,
Cotton flowing behind her like some tail
Tracing a comet of innocence.
Her dog, only twice the size of the
Two squirrels climbing the trunk
Of the tree her swing swings from,
Yapping at her, either for attention
Or in appreciation of the love she
Must, must feel for it.
Two seconds, and they're gone.
Driving on.
My girl inflating her yoga ball
On the living room floor, throwing
Her hair back and smiling, dizzy from
Oxygen spent.
She passes it to me, you do the rest,
But I'm too busy writing about her.
She laughs with her whole self.
Stares back at me when she catches
Me staring first. What? she'll giggle, and
As she stands up and moves towards me,
Still
Staring,
I see that this poem is ending. Two
Seconds.
She's still
Here.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
That old man working the fields outside
His old, windworn house.
His granddaughter in her light blue dress
On the swing in the garden,
Cotton flowing behind her like some tail
Tracing a comet of innocence.
Her dog, only twice the size of the
Two squirrels climbing the trunk
Of the tree her swing swings from,
Yapping at her, either for attention
Or in appreciation of the love she
Must, must feel for it.
Two seconds, and they're gone.
Driving on.
My girl inflating her yoga ball
On the living room floor, throwing
Her hair back and smiling, dizzy from
Oxygen spent.
She passes it to me, you do the rest,
But I'm too busy writing about her.
She laughs with her whole self.
Stares back at me when she catches
Me staring first. What? she'll giggle, and
As she stands up and moves towards me,
Still
Staring,
I see that this poem is ending. Two
Seconds.
She's still
Here.
