Sacred season of frog pond,
humming and mommy time
appreciates dandelions threefold
with fistfuls of I-love-you bouquets,
proud salads of tender, hand-picked greens
(despite their bitterness)
and seed fairies blown by the wind.
He digs, snuggles, makes books
(humming all the while),
relentlessly searches for lilacs
to grace the kitchen table.
Budding scientist employs sticks, nets,
stones, and containers as tools
of observation and exploration;
young monk sits straight, cultivating
meditative awareness of an anthill.
He plants peach pits,
stops to smell flowers,
cares for salamanders, frogs, and insects
yet is fearful of bullfrogs and snakes
(who have no place in this pond)
Five dwells in the realm
of imagination and possibility
bonds with the living, breathing world.
He creates fairy houses,
constructs the perfect train track,
names the pair of robins who
frequent our yard,
always enjoys a campfire.
Five is precious like a late autumn day
sunny and warm with clear blue sky
when a new season beckons.
Though winter silences the voices
of crickets, birds, and frogs,
I beg Six
to spare the sweet songs
he hums through out the day.
He says, "But I'll always
be like I am, when I'm six and seven
and eight and nine and ten...
and twenty eight and- what comes
after twenty eight?"
Gratefully, I smile
as Five continues counting.
~Susan Meyer; printed in Mothering magazine March/April 2004