For Wills Henry Larson

My grandson is six.
The maple leaves, mint green.
Last night we watered forgotten
flowers, noticed their colors
had turned sad. A wasp at the edge
of the porch worked its way
across its own life.

My grandson laughs and says,
Last night after I went to sleep,
I got up and opened my door.I told him it was a strange,
rainy night for sure.

And a steady downpour this morning.
Eating waffles with maple syrup
we watch rain splash on the deck.
It will save the flowers we missed,
too profuse for us to reach last night.

His mother and father gone
for the weekend. The pines
and maples are entwine in the yard.
For him, at his age, the two of us together
is as natural as the trees.