Today I may fly
with my hair sticking
in every direction
from the electicity
of a circular slide.
Spinning dizzy on a grassy field
may happen next, or rolling
down a hill, arms plastered
to my sides, in reckless
disregard for my own
Doesn’t matter. It’s the weekend.
We have bigger plans
than we are capable
of fulfilling. And that is half
the fun. We are rambunctious
and effervescent. We are loud
and joyful, running with our
wings out to our sides
making buzzing sounds.
We are planes or trains
or bumblebees. We are children
with our mother and it is
sunny outside. There is
trouble that is inevitable.
There is dirt waiting to attach
itself to every part of me that shows.
We will argue and fight and wrestle,
we will make our mother stomping
mad. We will make up and be over it.
She will count to ten and kiss us each.
There will be a peanut butter sandwich
and a banana for us when we get home.
We will not remember the tears
of today. We are at the age when we
cry over much. We will only remember
the laughs, the guffaws, the giggles and squeals.
That is the beauty of childhood.
We have no idea how lucky we are.
This is the photo I found when I searched under the word Twirl.