Fugitive

With new joy the child runs from his mother,
space widening between them, the always
diligent hand, the insistent teacher,
the maxims she has become: I told you,
do this, you can never. But perfect grass
and a compulsion of wind propels him,

mother distracted by a just broken
nail, by the hem come loose, and the boy bolts,
finding new leg muscles like fueled pistons,
mother behind, first amused then panicked
as he cuts a vector toward the road,
the pond, the farther place, leading them both

to a huffing reunion--the first time
in his life he can be both bad and loved.

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