Mimosa

white eyelet fabric
bunched up
poofed out like a parachute
when you plummet
to sit on the grass -
grass so green that it pulses beneath the melting blue sky
sunlight sucked into
the silhouettes of trees

soft dirt beneath your nine-year-old rear
firm and supportive
like a grandfather's hand
placed protectively on a skinny shoulder
you look like
a ghost made of curtains

the boys are off somewhere
living lives of tigers and lions
of great toothy beasts, sleek with shadows,
dappled by ancient instinct
they will come back later

you roll carefully
fear of green streaks on a white dress
distant
but still there
stretching out, you find
that the clouds are flirting with the sun
like party guests
moving along after discussions of weather (ha!) and gossip
very friendly and comfortable
and transient

eyelids shut
the drape-geist in repose
imagining this grand ball in the sky
until interruption
a tap on the nose
from breeze that's just a hair too cold for sleeping

your mother looms
watching like a benevolent  goddess
on the porch, in her
peep-toe heels
the color of lemon creme
sipping her
mimosa
she is a spring thing
of paper lanterns and garden parties
of Egyptian cotton and chickadees and the smell of curled hair

endless mother, and a father who waits inside
all woodsmoke and cedar chests and newsprint fingers
autumn, inevitable; crisp and kind

waiting for his spring thing
who smells of mimosas
and his wild child
who grows from the ground in her parachute frock
his little poltergeist
who is asleep in the grass

but now is not the time to speak of that -
or the clouds will gossip.