Being Schooled

Lately these mornings as he runs
by, a flower cries.

They won’t let him
stop, he’s buckled into blacktop

rules. On the way to school
he mourns what is uncrushed

the perfect blossom lonely
in the morning rush.

Tomorrow he can come and
linger here, gather dew copious

like tears on his finger
near these blooms he knows

so well. I’ll give him room
a spell, re-membering, hearing

petals fall in ecstasy
being squeezed by one

so small. The exquisite pain
of love so grand

staining skin
absorbed in this tiny hand.

Inspired by: School, Copious, Crush and the phrase “A flower cried.”

Weather Report

He pauses on the threshold,

frowns into the sky.

“It’s raining,” I say, excluding

his favorite destination — outside.

He’s a two-and-a-half-year-old

scientist, and this puzzle

is perplexing.  One foot on the dry

step, a hand raised, he ponders.

Surely, if one applies a burst

of speed like a natural-born sprinter

obeying the shot — and I admit

I don’t sense it firing, so although

I usually trot alongside him,

I am blindsided now

by his abrupt

exhilarating release

and he is gone

disappearing behind corners.

The drops still find a moving

body and he is ringing

the front doorbell in the cold

discovery.  He’s surprised

to see me behind him.

Soaked and laughing,

we shiver like poplar leaves

before wrapping up in warm

towels.  “It’s raining!”

He tells me, and huddled

and dripping, we let

the conclusions of this 

experiment seep into our cells

like poetry, claiming these

layered meanings,

this simple phrase.


Inspired by: Exhilarating, Alongside