(For Tara)
Magic is exploring a neighborhood park at midnight breathing the forbidden post-curfew air, whirling in fog between honey locusts playing tag with our secrets we hide-and-seek hoping to be found swinging high― so high the stars are blotted out by our bare toes not knowing where or why not caring who or how embracing darkness's gift uncertainly facing each other round and round the merry-go-round we laugh fumbling thru Eternity is to feel the thing least expected made real: the surprise of flesh, of love that comes suddenly the way lawn sprinklers spring to life, startling us we shout, fresh-cut grass clinging to our ankles, holding Joy is a sleight of hand, awakening to the smell of sourdough pancakes sitting on kitchen stools watching each other sprinkle chocolate chips onto our griddle cakes is God whispering in our ears at midnight, “Wake up, Child, the park awaits.” |