Again our children run the dock—
clatter, thunk, splash.
I watch from the house,
unpack boxes, hang my western
life on New England walls,
fold myself into pine drawers.
There’s the flash of bright swimsuit
through a maze of green-leafed oaks,
the dash and leap, like an Olympic
long jumper, as far
as speed, thrust, and body allow.
Just before fear grabs their ankles
they fling themselves over the threshold
and shriek with falling joy.
