Mother, thefolkwholiveupinthecloudscallouttome—
“Weplayfromthetimewewaketillthedayends.
Weplaywiththegoldendawn, weplaywiththesilvermoon.”
Iask, “But, howamItogetuptoyou?”
Theyanswer, “Cometotheedgeoftheearth, liftupyourhandstothesky, andyouwillbetakenupintotheclouds.”
“Mymotheriswaitingformeathome,” Isay.“HowcanIleaveherandcome?”
Thentheysmileandfloataway.
ButIknowanicergamethanthat, mother.
Ishallbethecloudandyouthemoon.
Ishallcoveryouwithbothmyhands, andourhouse-topwillbethebluesky.
Thefolkwholiveinthewavescallouttome—
“Wesingfrommorningtillnight; onandonwetravelandknownotwherewepass.”
Iask, “But, howamItojoinyou?”
Theytellme, “Cometotheedgeoftheshoreandstandwithyoureyestightshut, andyouwillbecarriedoutuponthewaves.”
Isay, “Mymotheralwayswantsmeathomeintheevening—howcanIleaveherandgo?”
Thentheysmile, danceandpassby.
ButIknowabettergamethanthat.
Iwillbethewavesandyouwillbeastrangeshore.
Ishallrollonandonandon, andbreakuponyourlapwithlaughter.
Andnooneintheworldwillknowwherewebothare.
