by Meryl Stratford
It looks like a day at a playground,
an invitation for adventurous children
to climb over, around, and through,
and the little girl with dark curls is
half-way through, balanced
on all fours, her hands
in one world, her feet in another.
An autumn field where wild brambles
have discarded their leaves and berries,
and now only thorns remain, so the man
behind her, who must be her father,
grasps her legs to guide her
over the barbed wire.