the road

a tot's purpose,
pure as his chuckle,
the most immovable force
in this dimension--

my son has two acres of
continuously mown pasture
in which to roam,
dandelions and grasshoppers
his first play-mates.

he's transfixed with
the edges, the boundaries,
the limits, never the middle,
so momma can sit in the shade,
doing nothing.

north, he toddles to barbed wire
and a few cows contemplating
the heat,

south, he toddles to grandma's
arms--I hope our new
neighbors don't mind smudged
handprints on their front door,

east, he toddles to open fields,
tall grass, a ravine that's shelter
to coyotes, a red-tailed hawk,
and the opossums who steal
my safflower

but it's his westward toddle
to the road, a straight-line,
uphill, dust-covered evergreens
blocking his view, and mine,

only farmer jack
knows enough to slow down,
look for those uncut curls,
and wave.

time doesn't ask for permission--
but this fight I can still win,

to grab an unwilling hand,
turn the boy right around,
and coax, drag, or carry him
back to the perfectly boring safety
of home.