a handful
of tangled legs and wings
litter the floor

he knows which are left
under pillows 
or in hats, or other secret crevices

he's not taming dragons
to fly

he already soars

©Erin Croley

The original version of this poem, titled rain, was written sometime before 2005 (my post-mom brain doesn't remember dates). Two days ago, while hauling four truck loads of rock through two thunderstorms and a too-close tornado (see cleansing truths), my fascination with storms was reinforced, again. This morning I stumbled across rain, and it seemed appropriate to revisit the poem. It has a few revisions, but not many, and a new title. Enjoy Missouri rain, and a slightly altered image excerpt. 

Once a part of White Girl Can't Fancy Dance, I'm still not sure with which collection it best fits. Any ideas?

every night
in his slightly pee-scented
bed, my little man
puts his hand
on my cheek,
innately charismatic,
and says
"lay with me mommy,
for 3 minutes"

©Erin Croley

extra morning minutes in bed
are spent convincing dreams
to loosen their grip
and let me exist
in this reality
slightly fragmented

©Erin Croley

I try to stand perfectly still

let the breeze filter the sun's warmth

through my sweat-soaked clothes

but my face keeps tilting up

and my heart keeps beating


©Erin Croley

when kids play
with art
hope is painted,
canvas imprints in
mud and sand and scraped shins
determined to find
joy

©Erin Croley

we left out "obey"
threw out the rest too
just like the pies and extra sharp white cheddar
cheese round instead of cake
uniquely our
beginning

©Erin Croley