Ars Poetica Op. 12 No. 4

And this is what those fingers
that are not mine—
are mine—
are doing: Playing like children
on the first day of summer vacation.
They run to the fields and
throw themselves at each other without care.
They create havoc.
They are loud. They are wild. They are savage.
They catch fireflies with mason jars.
When night comes they won’t stop playing.
They play until they are tired and then
then they find their way home. They crawl into bed
and dream of that first golden day of summer.
“Tomorrow will be like this,”
they whisper to no one.