Where I attempt poetry after a long absence

The tattered hammock stubbornly resists the gentle back and forth movement

of a small, tethered boat.

My left leg hangs over the side,

pushing back from the weeds to produce the motion I know should be mine.

Not quite relaxed, my gaze turns to the sky

When my children clamber up beside me and we tip dangerously to one side.

Not content to let me own this eight feet of openness and peace they have cornered me

Irritation bubbles up.

Resigned I ask, Shall we hunt for shapes in the clouds?

This suggestion is novel, and I am flummoxed.

Have we never lay on our backs and looked at the sky?

Enchanted, they begin calling out shapes of dragons and fish and other things lost to that Moment.

My foolish leg, so determined to manufacture rest, can no longer reach the ground.

My daughter is wedged beside me shouting out Sky-Shapes.

His imagination at full tilt my son identifies the wonderful

And I see it.

The Moment has come in the end

On her own terms