D.K. SHEPARD

There are moments I remember, daydreams

Of gold carriages pulled by white horses,

Magic spells, and dancing shoes made of glass;

Summertime, within hay bale forts we’d hide.

Bottle caps, dandelions, and bluebunch

Shuffling through the box – favorites in my grasp –

of home made movies, labels worn away.

Sunday morning, I plod downstairs, barely

awake, then slump into a kitchen chair.

Dad’s specialty, pancakes with blueberries.

Horseshoes and hand grenades, yes, that’s the phrase

Only times getting close actually counts

In a snowy blanket of flawless fleece

We stitch swirling threads of weaving footprints

A perfect day to play some Fox and Geese

We start with strands of colored lights,

then hang the glass ball ornaments,