the poetry of Charles Fry

16 December 1996

dedication

I slide my hand into the small puddle
then reach and trace the imprint of my crooked fingers into the mud.
A small wait as the water swirls then calms.
Reflecting your soft eyes into mine.
"Hey, what are you doing here" I ask the puddle.
"Oh, just hiding to see how soon you will find me" you respond.
I think about this, and start sliding my hand through the warm mud
spinning your face through the sky with the trees.
You softly laugh, in time with the rippling of the water.
"Hey, what are you laughing at" I ask as the waves settle.
"Oh, just that it tickles a little to be twirled so" you say.
I think about this, and carefully slip my hand back out.
This time it is you who looks at me wonderingly.
But I only turn around and begin walking up the grassy hill.
"Hey, where are you going so soon" you whisper.
"Oh, just a little farther up this grassy hill" I reply,
smiling so big that I dare not look back over my shoulder --
until I can no longer hold in the cry of glee that escapes my lips
as I turn around and start running, running
and then closing my eyes I jump up, arms open pure and
wide enough to hold the whole sky.
And this time I am laughing along with you.

Copyright © 1996 Charles Fry