here. a poem.

he was four
when he sat on his haunches
in the emerald spring grass
picking splats of sunshine
yellow [some call weeds]
and stuffing wilty stems
into the tender fold of his hand.
“here, mama.”
dandelions are
my favorites.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: