Bruegel's Games

Later years blur into
the farthest taper of a town
ahead, from
the center barrel

and two hoops rolling,
here judicial stocks
are toys, where carnival
commenced in the pre-dawn.

How many years
you are matters.
The size of daddy’s shadow
and mommy’s hug matters,

though today few mothers
stroll chiding, ever-present,
and fathers, in another world,
are absent more than strewn hats.

In twos they appear readying
for some unneeded ark—
disaster unimagined is
disaster prevented.

Or they herd en masse,
grazing absurdly
a trodden plaza
ingesting dust,

enjoying the touch
that age dissolves.
The hand-in-hand,
the slap, clap, and punch,

the body mounting youth,
piggy-backed,
chicken-fighting,
leap-frogging,

tells the always story
of our animal intent.
Just away, left, water sits,
and one boy clawing

low on a birch
remembers some elder’s
ramble that you can’t
step into the same river twice.