Friday, April, 2013
Back Yard, Seven Months
You clutch grass.
Dandelion seeds stick in the slick of your face.
A ladybug, so bright, crosses a leaf, so busy.
From apple blossoms, the buzz of bees.
Little fingers rake tiny green
leaves: baby’s tears, inaptly named.
A geranium enters, somehow, a nostril.
Drool mixes with crumbs of dirt.
A breeze blows your hair,
sun blushes your skin.
To all the world
Sometimes a poem is a way of taking a snapshot. I snapped this one when I had the job of taking care of my newest grandson for a day.
He's one happy fellow.
And why does this poem appear in a blog about jobs? Because I work with my hands. These are my trades: plumber, carpenter, electrician, grandfather. My tools: wrench, hammer, pliers, blanket.