By Ben Mathews
Sitting patiently for hundreds of years
at the peek of the gentle hill
Carved by the hand of time
perfectly, to accommodate the mischievous
presents of children.
The splendor sprinters ran down the hill,
letting gravity do the work
arms out, hoping to be first in flight
Splashing the leafy puddle,
dodging fallen limbs.
Exploring hidden hideouts, building the club house
out of wooden box crates. And often,
Days wasted like the old mattress,
Coiled springs poking out like twisted frozen snakes.
The crisp chilled smell of October
A brisk wind rolling in
Dried leaves, some still clinging to their trees
The echo of a distant wood pecker, dancing
of falling leaves. The smell of the dust of natures rust.
Tired, resting in the bucket seat of the
Sitting rock, tummies rumbling as nights
Fingers crept over our imaginations.
Returning home, we left sitting rock there
Waiting patiently for hundreds of years to come.
