Spreading fingers wide,
Palms red and dirty reaching out
for
The pool, is shallow, but cold.
Rinse the sticky sweet of
raspberries
From my hands, and mouth, and your
hair
Has hay in it. We chase to the
barn,
A tractor playground of metal, the
loft
Is rotting but the bales are a
tower
I climb, you climb; we jump without
considering
The thrasher, the baler, the foxes,
and obstacles
In the cupboard are eggs spun from
sugar,
As if imagined. The horses eat
pieces
We break. Soft noses, big eyes on
our open hands.