One Afternoon

His wavy, wet hair hangs in his
Huge brown eyes
and I ask him, "Why does it rain?"
He doesn't have an answer
but the tilt of his head is enough
The corners of my mouth turn up
as he kicks out
Making the creaking porch swing
jerk backwards and up into the misty air
And I start to wonder
why I feel so enchanted
on such a dim, damp day
so I lean over
and brush the brown tangles
from his face.
Sept. 8, 1995