for Amelia
Father waits, a matador
ten feet free from his kids, tiny bulls
who paw & pull the grass
& wait to charge headlong at full speed.
Father moves, a matador
sashays left, then right, then left again
with each pass from son or daughter
he punches the air with one finger.
Olé, he cries after their every miss.
Bulls strategize their attack,
work as a team, two on one
to tire father until he sweeps
them into his arms. I am missed.
Bulls giggle, satisfied & giddy,
roll across the grass like daffodils
topped too early in bloom, thrown
as if from an absent sibling.
Olé, I whisper from my invisible seat.