Like Peter Rabbit, Whom He Much Admires
My grandson fits inside the hollow,
head pressed against its roof,
legs tucked inside the cage of roots.
As if the pine has cast a spell to calm
his shouts, the gallop that propelled
him past the shore of Dyer Pond
this morning of late summer, too cold
to swim, too cold to wade in after frogs,
he grows so quiet, touching bark
as if his hands could speak, the tree
could listen. We speak in whispers
of the dangers he’s escaped,
his love of hiding, all the warnings
we have given when his feet have flown
him far beyond our sight and voices.
Cradled and snug, he presses ear to earth,
sap dripping on his hair to leave
a kiss so firm we cannot wash it out.