The backyard offers

and we accept. 
We are mere conjunctions
between giant nouns whose cares
are smaller than ours.

A coo from my companion.
I respond, in agreement.
We are lucky, he and I.
We are younger than the earth
always will be.

Our youth and inexperience
excuse us our trespasses.

In between my steps
and his tiny hands
there is a compact 
that only speaks in smiles.

Heat and the shade.
Fear and joy.

A lawn covered
with sheaves of itself
clumped between fence
and four inveterate eyes.