a

 summer

sunday,

i lie on the cool mown grass,

i’m eight or maybe nine

.

old growth firs

stretch above, their

dark thick needles

break the deep sky

thinking of infinity,

no church pews,

no family ritual.

just my back to the earth and

my face to the sky

                                          fingering the bird count

above me

my father

has taught me

all their names.

climbing the hill to home

i do a

superman

run, jump, and hop,

just in case 

now

 i can really fly