The sun has come out after a showery
and I have taken my handwork
The air smells of wet wood,
Quiet and still, I hear a gull calling in the distance.
The campers in the campground next door
have not yet emerged
from their tents
and their travel
and I savour the moments
before their children
re-discover the chill of the water
begin the business
of chasing squirrels from the trees.
Across the lake, a lone fisherman
and I can hear the faint tick-tick-ticking
I sit in the hot sun
until I begin to feel the trickle
behind my knee
and behind my neck,
under my hair.
the quilt becomes
to hold on my lap.
I put stitching daisies
until the cool of the evening
me to return
You got your first bike when you were four because you had started throwing tantrums and daddy said no way we’re not rewarding bad behaviour but I said he needs his freedom from the daycare kids in the back yard, he is getting older he needs to be allowed to do more, trusted to be a big boy, he is asking us to help him grow up, and so we went to town and you picked out a purple bike with handle bars that came up to daddy’s knee and white training wheels and plastic streamers in the hand grips and we put clickers in the spokes and a helmet on your head and you were allowed to ride from our house to three houses down and back again. You stopped throwing tantrums, and a year later daddy took the training wheels off and ran behind you, back and forth up and down, one hand on the back of the seat, on your back, on your helmet, hovering, hovering, until you looked back and saw him running beside you, look, look, no hands!
This is my 5th installment of Just Write, an exercise in free writing your ordinary and extraordinary moments. I am linking up with The Extraordinary Ordinary. (Please see the details here.)
I posted this back in March. Seems appropriate to re-post today. Hope it gives you a bit of a laugh…
It seems this year I do not know if the snow will ever go. In March April it sits here like a brick (not a brick like “you’re a brick, Dick”), I mean a brick like bricks and mortar, the kind used in the Latin Quarter.
Winter hard and cold and cruel will last until the end of school, and instead of flying kites, all the kids will get frostbite. No more soccer, bikes or bats, for them it’s mittens, scarves and hats.
Cry and wail and weep away, it’s in the snow you’re forced to play. Sleds and skates and hockey pucks, if you don’t like it, then you’re (ahem) out of luck. For no matter how you plea, summer’s just not meant to be.