Hot day
Record-breaking, says the paper.
Hasn’t been 80 degrees on April 24 in 55 years.
Lush green growth everywhere,
Songs of wrens and blackbirds on the breeze.
Sitting on the front stoop after dinner,
Enjoying a popsicle with my son.
He stands behind me, enjoying the feeling of tallness.
“Mom,” he says, eyes glinting,
Mouth ringed in purple.
“Hey, Mom –
Some of your hair is turning white.”
So go the cycles;
His spring wheeling through my fall.
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“His spring wheeling through my fall.” What a delightful line! The whole poem really worked for me. I was with you through the heat and the birds, the porch and the popsicles. I love the contrast between his purple-ringed mouth and the observation of your white hair; his tallness, his growth and your sitting, your aging. It all just came together so well.
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“His spring wheeling through my fall” got me too. Gorgeous line. Wow.
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