My pinecone pricks
my fingers on the wind-up,
wobbles overhead,
plops through
the water’s false sky.
My son’s tumbles
limp from shore to shallows,
and he crows
and crows. The sky
distills its cool,
and we—upright
on flattened grass—
don’t think overmuch
on the weather, time:
just bluster and be
on the edge.
His winter
coat zipper keeps
bursting its middle.
I align the teeth,
pull hard as heaven
against his growth.
