Poem for the Day: Spring Outing

One bright April morning
after torrential rains the boy
and I sat in the car, and as I turned the key,
the raspberry bushes in the garden trembled,
but I did not tell the boy
about the turtle I watched lumbering
into a bush, the way its shell glistened
in the wet grass, nor did I exclaim out loud
though I was tempted; the engine was running
and I pulled into the road.

Almost to the swings and slides,
the boy said suddenly: This is a boring park!
And I stopped the car midroad--a grand gesture--
turned and fixed him with a stare:
Boring is for nincompoops, the mindless
bereft of imagination!

But later after an eternity
of pushing the boy on the swing,
I strode ahead, turned, saw him
prostrate on the mud, his face buried
in a clutch of purple violets
he dared not pick,
only he murmured:
Sweet, sweet.

Then I recognized myself.
And before I forgot
I stopped,
smelled lilacs blooming, felt a wind
pregnant with sunlight and spring:
the unlikely birth of turtles,
flowers tiny as a boy's fingertip.