Clover sodden with dew crushes flat beneath my boots
as I slowly walk the rows of Olive trees all around me.
Behind follows my son, I smile
He is trying to place his tiny feet in my grassy steps.
I shorten my stride,
For the boy is all of eighteen months old.
He walks with the confidence of one whose known no fall.
With ears pricked all my attention is directed behind…just in case.
Soon he is by my side talking the talk we adults fail miserably to understand.
His tone tells it all though, as it rises with each discovery made.
His baby talk sounding suspiciously like a running commentary on the grove.
I stop to look at a tree with lightly eaten leaves…as does he.
“Curculio beetle for sure” I say down to my son and to myself.
“…Car!” my nodding son replies, (a current standard-all-sweeping reply).
Nodding in agreement, I hold an upper-lateral in my hand, turning it over in inspection.
My son holds a lower lateral and rip’s it off to inspect it…Hmm, strong lad.
Both sighing, we turn as one and continue our walk.
I flatten the clover, clearing a path so little legs can step easier.
Little things mean the most,
The most is made from little things.
I now hold my boy, arms enfolding him next to my heart.
He is asleep.
He asked to be picked up with arms outstretched, so I did.
In one short moment and a deep sigh,…sound asleep.
His little body is tucked-in tight on my chest.
I still walk the Grove, My boy and I,
In his sleep his arms tighten around my neck
Wishing with all my heart…this be an endless moment.
…And so we still walk our Grove.
Michael John Kildare