The tree caught him,

held him in the crook of a branch, his ankle

wedged tight, he dangled there—

all seven years of him,

an upside down X of a boy:

belly exposed, hands reaching—

a measurable pulse

between him

and hard ground.

I moved like a mother—

caught him just as the school bus

arrived with its defeated sigh.

The children, the bus, even other mothers

left us with their sympathy.

Our walk back home

was slow and limping.

The morning’s usual push

had me yelling: Teeth! Shoes!

Yelling just to be heard:

Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!

I forgot to notice the sky.

The way the clouds spread, the way the new

leaved trees beckoned

or even this boy—lung, heart, blood, bone—

bundled and rushing

into the newly lit world.

He is going to learn, I tell myself.

Because he will have to—won’t he?

How to follow the rules of others,

the expectations of people

and things like gravity

and light, force and motion,

that push and pull

of impossibility.