All our beautiful sons at the playground
operating in vivid colours, their prime, vivid voices ringing out.
Now the slides, now mountaineering, now jumping from swings.
They’re wonder-struck on the sight of
a inexperienced maple tree spilling its magic,
waving its hands at blue sky. They’re so little, the language
of violence hasn’t but entered them.
Older boys haven’t but taught them easy methods to be merciless.
They contact the sector with small fingers
and are overjoyed—a xylophone bell
ringing a rainbow of feels like concentric circles
solid by means of a pebble at the floor of a lake.
It’s past due afternoon. We sign up for the shadows of different moms,
pushing our swinging kids.
Little parabolas. They cross upper and better
into what turns out an never-ending sky.
The giant shadows thrown by means of our our bodies
are us however no longer us,
like silhouettes of ladies transferring at the back of white sheets
on a clothesline.
And now this night time prior to the solstice,
swinging our sons
and the shadows of our sons
suspended in midair.
We personal not anything, no longer even our personal shadows,
tethered as we’re to time.

for Catharine