I walk from the shadows into the morning,
Pulled by your anxious hand,
Torn from the pressing weight of my hours
By your entreating demand.
We walk for a while with your hand in mine,
But I am too slow for you,
You flit ahead of me, graceful and golden,
With your own bright things to do.
I linger. How warm, how sweet the sun is,
Touching my tired face,
The brush of green ferns against the tree bark,
How lovely it is to trace.
I’d forgotten the world held such beauty,
In working, in giving my days
To the serious task of raising children,
My heart has forgotten to praise!
We walked to nursery school today.
The last of eight.
We stopped. He picked up leaves
And said, “It’s autumn time.”
For me it is.
For him it’s spring.
She can draw, or maneuver pieces of a puzzle
(Is it jigsaw, tinker, rubric?), and so confound
Adults into an amazement through which, so profound,
She cleverly saunters, neatly original, to nuzzle
Up to Merlin in a primer book, though never to muzzle
Any ilk of storyteller. Her feeling surely as sound
As thinking, she considers backyard denizens bound
By duties of affection, including birds and chuzzle-
Wits. Neatly riding whatever crest (joy, bluegrass,
Wind), she appoints discourse with dayspring blue,
Lifting forward into fairest reasoning to surpass
Our logic, offering violets to affluent us to sue
For favors for various waifs. I say, in sobriety,
That she will ever be president of a relief society.