Oh, how good it is to play.
Dumping the bones on a gentle slope
planted in tinted violet, pale pink to rose,
candy corn yellow leaves, as parents stand
by armed with rakes and shovels, observing
with their crotchety independence how good
it must be to be a child again. To be free again,
to see a December sunset cast its ochre-brown,
saddle-shaped, conspicuously veined light,
eyelash like thin, over the gelatinous flesh of a
family’s front yard. Siblings sunken in soil, that
rich manured soil, soon to become melting snow
banks, scattered on rich, brain-shaped humus.