Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

She held my hand obediently as we walked
the halls and along the path from school.
We hopscotched each painted patch
and counted her years on each one.
One, two, three and four, and the excitement
of number five, birthday in October.

We crossed the expanse of sand that is
the baseball diamond in the playground
I told her of Ben’s game, of the sand
being the Great Vortex in summer, and
the Frozen Tundra when it was snow
and ice. She would imagine her own game.

The walk was wonderful, until we
went through the gateway to our garden.
Aya Rose stopped, refused to move.
“The weeds hurt my feet.” Dried grass
stems, dark against the dirt path,
bothered her flip-flop clad feet.

I walk on slowly, and soon she came
running, finding the softer grasses beside
the path, and we discussed her asking
Grandpa to mow that part of the garden
soon.