There is much to be said for the making of lines.
I number the spaces, a canopy on top;
chalk is brave.
The stone I saved for too many years
slides from my pocket; warm
on my thigh.
Before I toss it I expect socks to fall,
another skinned knee, someone to call me in
for supper.
I take chances; hopscotch one foot, then the other,
knowing there's no turning back, until I land on both
feet,
unscathed.
