Now time goes away like sugar
dissolved but still sweet, wafting
through the smell of burning leaves,
root beer floats, plastic dolls.
Hear the soft scrape of a snow shovel
or a rake, our songs in the back seat of a car,
my mother's voice at the piano,
the baby crying in a wooden-slatted crib.
Clusters of bicycles looped in tissue paper
decorate a neighborhood,
little legs pumping months after the snowman
in daddy's hat melted in the front yard.
Toads in shoe boxes, fireflies in jars,
water in a plastic pool soaking up the sun's warmth.
Children waiting through an unending,
capricious summer day.
Feel the quietude of a Sunday morning,
sense the sparseness of each new day.
Nothing happened today, but yesterday the milkman
and the crazy-haired egg lady delivered their goods.
Lying in a pile of leaves, dreaming
in the daylight, finding faces in the clouds,
waiting for something - but not knowing
the intermezzo would ever end.