Paper cranes partially folded
fall onto the berry blanket, spread
below birch trees, whittled by winter’s
firm stand; black and white,
stark creatures of dark and light,
they oversee the murky evergreen lake.
Weedy waters reflecting my daughter,
waves of cool air spinning her weathervane hair,
fresh white limbs growing like toenails;
her new shoots point straight up in the air.
A nest of children play together there,
daughter’s on top, an anthill of energy,
upside down, face a spinning globe
of unpinned destinations.
Kids wrangle ropes, sticks and stones,
their verdant voices, megaphones.
Creatures crawling through unfiltered sand,
filthy is the oldest game in the land,
and when the weather’s tame, we, mothers, sip
Aperol sunshine with jungle gym grins.
Spring is bouncing off the ropes again,
and we enjoy the buoyancy.