meadows
when evening at last arrivedturning the streetlights
the color of memory
I would scurry away
from my father
like a little squirrel
light up shoes bounding a meadow
against the encroaching dark
it was our little game
as fast as I could
and he was there
always right behind
never tiring of the chase
and when I was inevitably caught
and he scooped me to his arms
blanket of stubble pressed
sweet against my ear
he would carry me
just like that
all the way home.