—I COULD LIE AND SAY I LIKE IT LIKE THAT

                                                   Tiny Monsters

           It is something like breathing, the way the wind walks backward through the switchgrass, honey suckle and butterscotch lifting lightly off each blade, here in this very field where you once fought your army of tiny monsters with a gnarled tree staff.  Even then you believed in the soul of imagination and the gift of summer solstice, a boy silly enough to adore and love, my son, whose voice I hear giggling in the catastrophic breeze.