The water’s clean and cold
and good, pulled straight up
from a lower spring.
They sing as they go,
not the high princess ah-ah-ah
of their former selves,
but a low high-ho of work
well done and freedom won
and stories spun,
laced in laughter and woven
-whim’d through the trees.
They squeeze their eyes
shut and seize the day
in joyful sway and grateful
hum. Another one, well done.
::
In November, we poem. Sometimes four days in one.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 