Kathleen
Cumberland Pool
The blue glass of the pool,
lane lines wavering below;
one deep breath— and leap!
Then kick, scoop, breathe,
kick, scoop, breathe, kick …
Only me, only the water
dissolving me into summer.
Simple Pleasures
I wonder—with each city park
now crowded with construction;
slides and swings and wooden
jungle gyms; fortresses, like
manufactured villages
for summertime amusement—
do children play the games
we used to revel in, on lawns,
in parks, those long and endless
afternoons of liberation in the sun?
Hide and Seek. Mother May I?
Crack the Whip and Statues; games
that need no more than friends.
The Peace Park down on Coventry
has its entertainment complex;
beams of weathered timber, ropes
for climbing, chutes for sliding, perches
for the lookout, cubby-holes for hiding.
Yet, down its gently sloping hill
roll a giggled gaggle—free of all
but self-directed motion, self-induced
emotion; tumbling dervishes
of mesmerized emancipation.
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