They come down from the mountain,

my husband, my son.

The old man, nearly giddy,

swings the boy up

over his shoulder, then down

below his knees.

The breeze carries

laughter

and the smell of sun-warmed rocks.

Now at the mountain’s base

two figures so alike,

one tall, one small.

My husband pauses, eyes closed,

palm cupping the boy’s head.

Mountain dust and rust-colored

spots dot the cloak he carries.

His beard and hair flame silver in the sun.

The boy bumps his father’s hip,

runs to bury his smile in my skirt.

Down still shines on his child’s neck.

My son laughs, runs back to his

father who swings his boy-child up

against his heart.

They rock, the arm-cradled child

restless, asking to get down.

My husband watches,

silent,

as my son begins to talk.

A pile of wood, a thorn-plucked ram,

he babbles as,

behind his father’s still-broad back,

clouds – rose, aubergine and grey –

build around the mountain’s peak.

“Sarah” appeared in The AFCU Journal 3.1 (Spring 2006).