Feet dangling in icy cool water, pencil perched on paper…I watched you. I wanted to sketch the moment, to capture your grin…those dimples…the twinkling blue eyes and exuberance of youth.  But I’m no artist.   Words, as always, will be my sketch…a means to hold the moment:

Eleven

When every rock is hailed a precious find…

When every hill, a mountain to be climbed…

When every myth inspires a valiant deed…

When every prayer’s as pure as ancient Creed…

When every thought a glimpse on earth of heaven…

Thank God for boyish wisdom, aged eleven.

Love, mom