Sticky hands

Sticky hands, sticky hands,

and that swing-set so high 

I feel I’m flying.

Here, I am fast.

Oh Momma, don’t you see?

toes in grass,

and dirt on my feet.

Here, I am green

With youth, a bud

yet set to bloom

white-knuckling handlebars 

with a nearly toothless grin

I speed –

through grazed knees and tummy aches,

through counting trees and wide awake,

through loud car songs and “just okay”,

through Momma, I don’t want to stay –

Here, it’s too cold, too dark, too damp

and I don’t think I got a proper chance

to say goodbye to the girl with her toes in the grass

and her toothless grin and unburdened laugh

Time can’t change me fast enough,

and the wire is growing thin

but if I think of sticky hands,

I might slow down again.

Other posts that may interest you:

• The Farmer’s Wife