We splash the clouds,
slapping what floats
on our wet playground,
laughing in the mirrors
of liquid magic—
we jump in the galactic
from docks, where light
streaks the surface in a glitter
of daystars
and we drift
over mountains on rafts,
peering beneath
for creatures, for secrets;
our ripened bodies lunge
across the swells,
and cedar-chains blanket
the shoreline as we walk
their water ghosts—
we spring for the up-side down,
what we kick with our feet
and spit through the puckered lips
of all our pretend,
swashing such fancies
that glow in the day’s glint,
bolstered by waves
that slide through fingertips—
then buoyed by the day’s end,
we spring from the depth-less,
leap to dry ground,
and wrap our bright bodies
in towels, looking to the sky
up . . . into the oak tree
looming over our frames,
its weathered arms spreading
its breadth, its age,
its sense, across our banks—
and through its limbs we spy
the same billows,
what our fists sloshed,
what we tossed
in the child-mirrors of our shallows
and we collapse like shadows
groundward, to the rooted,
coughing up candor of youth,
and puffed perceptions—
only to search the waters
silly and shy—
shivering in the gaze
of sun-dried reflections.