Butterfly Nets and Whiffle Ball Bats

S.A. VOLZ

Shoes streaked with the smear of dandelion,
the boys dart through the yard with butterfly nets
and whiffle ball bats—neighborhood sons not my own,
though I stand at the window and watch.

I think of seasons past—the sun-drenched sky
sinking into a haze of coming twilight
and honeysuckle slithering along the wooden fence,
the vines a tapestry of red and orange and white.

Oh, it was simple enough: Pluck a blossom,
pinch the green end, and pull the stamen.
Let the stem slide across your tongue
as it serves its single drop of sweetness.
The blossoms piled at my feet until the picking
became a problem in the swallowing dark.

Spring turns to summer. The dandelion wrinkles
into a globe of white, wispy filaments
that can be torn by a breeze, a childish breath.

The day is night now, and the boys are shadows—
forms merging, reflected in the window pane.