All our beautiful sons at the playground
operating in brilliant colours, their top, brilliant voices ringing out.
Now the slides, now hiking, now jumping from swings.
They’re wonder-struck on the sight of
a inexperienced maple tree spilling its magic,
waving its hands at blue sky. They’re so little, the language
of violence hasn’t but entered them.
Older boys haven’t but taught them how one can be merciless.
They contact the sector with small fingers
and are overjoyed—a xylophone bell
ringing a rainbow of appears like concentric circles
forged via a pebble at the floor of a lake.
It’s past due afternoon. We sign up for the shadows of alternative moms,
pushing our swinging kids.
Little parabolas. They cross upper and better
into what turns out an never-ending sky.
The giant shadows thrown via our our bodies
are us however no longer us,
like silhouettes of girls transferring at the back of white sheets
on a clothesline.
And now this night earlier than the solstice,
swinging our sons
and the shadows of our sons
suspended in midair.
We personal not anything, no longer even our personal shadows,
tethered as we’re to time.