Thursday, September 1, 2011

My Little Man

I watch him race into the yard,
On pudgy legs he swaggers onward,
To wander through the garden paths,
Adventure seeking is his sport.

He hides beneath the willow tree,
A branch for sword he battles forth.
Then takes a wound and falls to earth,
Hand clutching heart he dies so brave.

Up he jumps and runs to hide,
Amongst my Roma’s and Mountain Prides
A sheepish grin of bounty red,
Drips down his chin and stains his hands.

Mouth to sleeve and hands to pants
Then off he runs to chase a squirrel.
He spots the sprinkler in the back
Like moth to flame, to water lured.

A jump, a slash and slide through mud,
A squeal, a laugh, another jump.
Mud puddles made for sticky pies,
Or castles built with sticks and leaves.

Wet from head to toe he stands
With hands on hips he stalks his prey
Then suddenly through twinkling eyes
He detects me in my suit of white!

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