The big front pockets in my dress
support Claire's feet like stirrups;
I hold her spine as she arches,
face skyward.
I ask, "Wanna fly, Bear?" and she smiles,
giggling; her hair tossles on the breeze.
Little hands splay out above her head, gathering air,
as we dance in the backyard.
I spin her around and around;
tip-toed, then flat-footed;
my feet tangle in the grass and are released.
I hum to her and to the early evening air
watching diffused sunlight slip off her fingertips.
I set her down, and she squeals,
wild eyes spangling, chasing the yellow dog
and puffs of dandelion seed.
Prism colors fly around her like streamers.
Soon dusk sidles in, gray-washing the sky.
Claire loses her footing and sits hard on the lawn.
She looks at her sneakers, and a frown shadows her face.
I stand vigilant, fearing she might cry.
But with a crinkled forehead, she pulls herself to her feet,
and is off again, face drenched in its own light.
She spirals ahead into the quickening darkness.
I let out my breath, fear sliding away
like the sun behind the house.
I dance after her, joining in her laughter.
All poems copyrighted by the author, Tracey Besmark 1997©
