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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

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

 

Catherine Eaton Skinner

2009