Lucas puts on his crocodile shoes and leads me out to the patio.
It’s early, the sun is gentle, Lucas scoops damp sand and we build
castles five. He admires his work for a moment.

A moment stays and then is gone. He dashes up slab steps to kick
a black and white ball rolling to the net, instructs me to do the
same with the yellow and green ball, and is gone. I take my turn,
run, dribble, kick.

My great grandson is now by the little pond, watching the gleam
of water falling over rocks. Catching up, breathless now,
I kneel to watch with Lucas, and then stand to look around
the gardens, unkempt as they are. The sight is worthy
of a deep, deep sigh, and I do.

My feeling of despair that this tangle will defeat my dream
or orderly color, where years of plantings have rearranged themselves
as they please, is quickly followed by suspecting that it somehow
fits my own stubbornly chaotic nature.

Now I must follow Lucas, on is way to the patio doors.

MONDAY AFTERNOON

Lucas is napping, and I am watching
two cabbage butterflies
orbiting each other as they
cross the yard, noticing
nothing.

Past the vegetable beds they go,
ignoring leaf and bean,
sweet nibbles to nourish their flight
and I thank them for that.

Between the apple tree
and peony garden they go,
accomplished in their navigation,
and I admire them for that.

Onward, circling and circling toward
the fence, and finally out of my sight.
Now they are among the trees, where
no doubt they are welcomed in,
and I envy them for that.

LATE AFTERNOON

After his nap we go out to the gardens,
push the wheelbarrow filled with weeds
to the edge of the trees.
He steps away as I tilt the barrow,
struggling to keep it steady and me on my feet.

He’s among the trees, his voice full of discovery
as his little-boy legs meet new weeds and old bush.
“Oh! Lucas, wait for me” I rush to grab his hand –
my old legs avoiding the weeds and the brush.
He finds the grape, massive trunk, tangled vines,
but void of leaf or fruit. He fascinates it, pushes his body between the
dangling dead vines, baby-masculine display for Nana.

He finds a tree-stump, its body long fallen,
Punky and dusty, but still holding a place.
Jumping his one foot at a time jump, he laughs
as he’s powdered with stump dust and crumbs.
He pulls his hand from mine, giddy-runs from the trees,
across the grass til he tumbles, forest magic is interrupted.
For now.

September 2021