I will have my children
and raise them, too
in swinging weeping willows
and in colorful jungle gym mazes,
among shelves
of fictitious characters
in the basement
of a building
brimming with imagination.
We will finger paint
the moon with chocolate
pudding and eat
marshmallow stars on Mondays
in the dead of winter.
Our afternoons
we’ll spend
like cats, curled
inside a wedge of sunshine
stretched across a king-size bed
and wake up longing
to spin away
the cobwebs of sleep
in the shade of a sturdy sycamore tree.
We will talk
about God and good hygiene,
praying and playing,
cats and dogs, the birds
and bees, dead hamsters, green vegetables,
I will exchange
board rooms for Boggle
and conferences for sugar cookies
I will have my children
and be their mother, too.