A Child At Play

A poem I wrote for my three-year-old son back in 2010, as I was watching him play in the yard.

A Child At Play

My busy little man- he's picking up stones

Filling up the mailbox, "For Daddy," he explains.

My busy little man, pulling pine needles from the balsam fir

I tell him, "don't pull too many,"

"I need them in my car," he replies.

Poking the rabbits in the cage, padding along the front driveway,

Barefoot, little shorts and red t-shirt, sunlit caramel hair.

Bouncing a tennis ball, skipping over pavement.

My busy little boy, what does the future hold for you?

You are an innocent soul full of levity, your laugh

Reminds me of bubbles bursting

On a bright fragrant June afternoon such as this.

We hope for a good life for you, that you grow to integrity

Yet presently, we needn't fret about your future

I cherish these moments and hold them dear

Minutes spent building castles of pebbles,

My busy little man of three.

Reviews

[Helen]

This poem is beautiful and poignant. My little man of three is 30 now, but you have captured the essence of what it was like. You have held a moment that I had forgotten