I lie on my
back in the tallest grass,
a nesting
bird, hidden
just below
the hill's crest.
Buttery weeds
flutter in
delight
above me.
My mother
calls me, distant.
I know she
won't come into the field.
I hear the
screen door clap shut.
I twirl a
frilled stem, a ballerina
on tiptoe atop
my plaid and buttoned belly.
She tilts
her head to the side, flaxen hair flying free.
She shimmers
where her edges touch the sun.
The sky is
my secret lake,
framed by waves
of dancing goldenrod.
The sun is
my blanket.
The breeze my
silken bedsheet.
--Deborah Johnson Wood
