Come, Run With Me

 

‘Come, run with me,’ I cried,

Extending my hand to a blue-eyed boy

Blond as flax weed full of sun.

Five little fingers slipped into mine,

Silken, warm and trusting.

The chain of infants grew on either side

As we trotted around the yard,

Giggling and puffing and pink.

One by one the children dropped away

And again I ran alone,

Watching two-year-olds scampering 

In front of me, beside me,

Almost between my feet.

 

Suddenly, another  small fist thrust into mine,

And cuddled.

The baby fingers were rough and dry

Like the blunt twigs of a scaly tree.

Toddlers were tumbling  about

In kaleidoscopic abandon.

I feared I would trip over someone,

So I did not immediately look down

And smile at my new friend.

In three quick steps

The tiny hand was gone.

I did not know which child it was.

Which child I do not know.

Cynthia Buell Thomas