Daughters

When the trapped sun stands at it's peak,

my girls dash into the tall, cool bamboo.
Through the creek
and over the green-bearded stones,
they scatter the sleeping water mocassins 
(thick and brown as a man's bicep).

And when my arms grow weary,
and the sun escapes over the dark trees,
they return with blackened, crescent-moon fingernails
and infinite galaxies of dirt
flecked in their eyelashes.

John Wesley Lampe

Copyright (C) 2005 John Wesley Lampe