mayawrites

Grass warmed by the cushioning sat upon it,
Scribbles of the sky cower beneath their maternal.
Shirts stained with juice, heads rained with news,
Lungs satisfied, and the gut is too.

Like crickets in silence, the nectar nomad purrs,
The soft clack of spoon against mug,
So irregular, so unwanted, yet so present—
As if integrated into life, like the tantrums of black pheasant.

They wait in anticipation as the count begins,
Seekers seeking to find the hiders hidden,
They are there whispering in their ear.                                                                                                                  

Chasing in a persistent game of tag,
An intrusion, whispering nonsense in kid’s ears,
Them running to their parents in fright.

They wait in anticipation as the car is set to ‘drive’,
They are there as pleasantries are exchanged,
As mats, baskets, vulnerabilities are displayed,
As children scramble to wash their hands by the side of the road,                                                                                                    
As the car is set to ‘reverse’.