A father & son are having
a water balloon fight.
They invite me to join,
but I’ve got the skittish dog
w/ me, the one who took
a good six years to trust us.
I shake my head, & we weave
our way up the path.
New parents push
their baby in a swing
& my inner mother hears
the cries as more scared
than excited, but I quiet
the impulse to intercede.
They slow down into a game
of peek-a-boo, & little one coos
as we come around the bend.
I’d be over the moon to push
my chunky baby in a swing
again, but I feel lucky
enough where we’re at. I take
care of us, no man’s around
to hover or critique,
& the seasons turn so fast.
Summer’s cresting, but before
the light goes dim at dusk
hot air balloons will bloom
through the New Mexico sky.
I open the gate to our yard
& crouch to unleash
our supreme listener. Maybe,
I tell her cocked head,
graying beard, & wild
brows, this year I’ll ride one.
My kid peeks thru the blinds,
flings open the door, & rushes
to spill the teenage tea I missed
in the hour just past. I slide off
my sneakers & take it all in:
this brilliant stream of sound;
our tidy, private space;
these prime years of motherhood;
the joy of being in one place.