My plan is to pacify with a pillow
path and a sheet-draped fort,
a book about farts — Everyone Toots
— don’t mock.
In the summertime, he plunges into bearded
iris to talk to bees,
chases white moths and listens to trees.
In the fall, he hops after crickets
and startles plopping frogs.
With this wind coming in
from the north, we are forced
into rainy day laps
racing fast, high-stepping
marches with a singing bear,
a quick-tempo dance party.
A constant flow
of invitations
to leap and crawl,
trot and howl,
moving in our circuitous course
to the reward:
naptime,
which I’ll accept with humbled
grace and tumble
into sweet slumber
at his side.
