Under the Willowing Thatch

Baby toads in crosshatch grass-

Marsh and meadow- are silent

Under the willowing thatch,

Waiting, persistently, for orders.

My hand, puffy and unfair, descends,

Parting shaded blades,

Crisp as the reaper,

With unblemished glee.

Dispersing treasures to be collected:

Hop, hop, hop.

My twinkling fingers,

Seen as scythes,

Drop like columns around them.

Diamonds, held politely

And Taken home.

The patriarchs, ancient and bulbous

Captors of size, seized

And cordially coerced

To sand-walls and garden hose:

An imminent flooding.

Clink, clink, clink:

My father tinkering in the shed

Where I wind my way

Rustling under boxes, alive, and

-Stop-

Wiggling once again,

Sifted downward in the rusted ’49,

Burrowed.

The coos of the Mourning

Doves watching over me.

The swing twitches in the wind

As I scoop and shovel

In the sandbox until my mother calls

Dinner!

I rush in, sandyhands,

And come out in search of myself,

Having lost myself behind the wheel

With keys to freedom.

I seem calm on the outside

But I canvas frantically-

Fingers combing the social terra;

Grains of sand part between my grazing tips.

Find a place,

A playlist career,

Where the strings of radio carry me away.

I rise out from the boxes a winged creature

And try to take flight- solo-

Only to feel my feet scuffle

Down the tarmac,

Knocking the mailbox

On the take off, away.