the trees don’t mind
hands searching
for the next kind branch,
feet in a bend
or the struggle to straddle,
limb to limb.
this is their perfect place
for now, at least five feet
from below.
they jump to run, a true
merry-go-round
until they fall into a pretty pile
of their tangled selves.
blond and oblivious
they dress the grass
a game with no rule
that children play.
daddy whistles or momma
comes to the steps to call.
parents learn to smile
from where they’ve been
to who they will take
by hand home.
love is so easy then,
dispensed in a mommy kiss,
an orange speckled rock,
or a knee-grab hug.
children whisper mutiny
against the ritual
of bath, book, bedtime,
and imagine the time past
8:00 as a place
they may sometime go
to gather magic.
but being small, and
being simply children,
they know the magic
they know,
and run on home.