When the sun is just a bobbing white cork
Seen through a liquid glass, there is time
To remember the red tricycle that
You rode across the yard endlessly.
Now in quite stillness your thoughts glide
Back to Saturday morning cartoons and
The popcorn in oil cooked on the stove top
For the movies on later that night.
"My mother is a fish," whispers your
Long-finned escort as you drop slowly,
Slowly to the hidden beach, the lonely resort
Decorated with conch and moving stars.
You pedal and remember the heat from those
Dog Days and how the cows would be so still,
Frozen in place on the pastures at times,
Locked in a painter's gaze, then you see her face.