Pastoral

I filched this wonderful poem from Sally's blog.

Pastoral 

Crouched in the yard,
he brings his dirty hands up to his mouth.
No, No, I say. Yuck. Hurt. 

These are sounds he will recognize.
I say them when he takes an orange
with its hidden seeds and allergenic juice.
No. Yuck. Bad orange. Or reaming
from his mouth a wad of bread,
a lump of odorous cheese.
The fire will hurt.
The stick will break and stab you
in the heart. The reckless wheel,
the cool suggestive music of the pond.

Overhead, summer spreads its blue scarf;
a light wind bends the hollyhocks;
birds, trees --
everything the way I might have dreamed it,
he stands in the grass,
weighing a handful of berries,
a handful of stones.

(Ellen Bryant Voigt, The Forces of Plenty (c) W.W. Norton and Co., 1983)