un­ti­tled 11

on the first bright day of spring
the boys strap on their san­dals
the girls let down their hair
the sun wash­es their faces
the green grass sat­u­rates their blood 

a day for fris­bees and name­less con­ver­sa­tion
games of catch and leisure­ly naps in sway­ing ham­mocks
un­til the bus­tle of life ma­te­r­i­al re­turns

for now on this un­of­fi­cial hol­i­day
of breezy smiles and cloud­less eyes
the ants are even wel­come at this pic­nic
trees to scale, creeks to ford, forts to build
a pirate’s trea­sure of pos­si­bil­i­ties

the promise of a sum­mer too short to con­tain
and af­ter­noon of spring.