Window Seat


Window Seat

One day when dead
I’ll come back with a bike.

I’ll pedal past gleam
of wingtip over miles
of billows and bright,
loop and flip and float
over each peak,
giggling with my brother
as we weave
thin paths over
pillowy knolls,
never winded.

When we’ll fall we’ll
fluff a dent
into snowdrifts warm
as hammocks and fresh
as tulip petals.
Our knees will loaf
a moment before
scrambling on.

And when Mom’s voice
glows from the horizon
we’ll pat soapy Santa
beards to smooth chins,
bumble straight
to sunset’s abode

and help her tuck in
all the chirping stars.

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