sandy dunes

 feb 2014

feb 2014

i wish i could kiss your laughter

this laughter that permeates the air with sweetness and vigor.

there doesn't seem to be any sand dune that you can't climb

small feet one step upward, hold, and then another step

but when you want to fall, you do, flat on your tummy, neck arched up a bit

caught in the shifting, feather-like pillow of sand.

there are always places to climb and metal playground bars to pull up on

grasping and serious thought, clenching each bar upwards to near dangerous height.

making most things into hammers: banging dolls, hands, blocks and books on sister's head.

it is difficult not to laugh at your comical stubbornness, and i hope you won't notice how much i am amused

saying "no" so frequently and just because becomes quite a harmony:  my questions, your no.

but i can kiss you every time i hold you.  keep asking to be held, i have a hard time turning that request down.

books don't stand a chance in your capable hands.  wounded and marred, we read them.

baby-toddler bod so curved and fast--always when we don't expect it.  catch!

independent silent play, invitation only.  i sit on the outside and i'm not sure if i like that

are we connected still, you and i?

cries are dramatic and louder all for show.

coughing on your sister to irritate, to play the part of a little sister.

everything is touched and figured out, exploring behind the closed door.  propping it back open and stepping away.  shut again.

eager to leave my side for school, and hesitant to leave your play in the afternoon.

you are a pistol.

but when i ask for a hug, you are generous and whole-hearted

for now you lay on my lap and we rock each night, me with a song, you with the song topic:  pizza, yogurt, olivia


even though the sand will constantly shift and in the warm wind, it remains sand

and where it will rest for a time, it does not know, but it will land.