the swing....

The grandfather had planted the pear tree's roots deep
With full assurance of  his heart.
The branches held the ropes tight.
Confident in the strength of its capable limbs,
The swing leaned back with the weight of the child's joy
Head thrown back...body follows....arms stretched long, feet high
The small eyes capturing the canopy of summer leaves and
the sweet yellow fruit.
Just enough room for blue.
All the way home to her grandfather's arms.

Nx

Meeting of the moment

The old mother's hand was laid softly
On the new baby's belly,
And with her  constant heart
And the warm touch of her steady hand
The baby was calmed
And the old woman remembered.

Nx

may your trail be crooked.....

Benedicto: May your trails be crooked,
  winding, lonesome,
dangerous, leading to the most amazing
  view.
May your rivers flow without end,
 meandering through pastoral valleys
  tinkling with bells,
past temples and castles and poets' towers
into a dark primeval forest where tigers
 belch and monkeys howl,
through miasmal and mysterious swamps
 and down into a desert of red rock,
blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and
 grottos of endless stone,
and down again into a deep vast ancient
 unknown chasm
where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled
cliffs,
where deer walk across the white sand
beaches,
where storms come and go
as lightning clangs upon the high crags,
where something strange and more beautiful
and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams
waits for you---
beyond the next turning of the canyon
walls.

--Edward Abby