Standing in a field
with big blue sky,
while the rain threatens
the children on their playground.
Swiftly my thoughts,
charging from here to there
and back again,
it isn't a matter of relaxed.
Slow poke in the ribs
that knocks the wind
across the open field,
moving towards the horizon.
Play is an unforgotten
movement that pushes me,
and who is to say
what is or isn't play.
Hold out your hand
to receive this bleeding heart.
Time to move to where the wind blows
over the horizon, if that can be done.
irving2006
A re-post from my first book.