The Boy Bonnet

The Boy Bonnet

As a boy I’d climb feverishly
into strokes of a tree’s curved arms.
Up where chiding wrens are useless.

I would consider
about the godawful sun in these red eyes,
about the need to push a chick from its youth,
about the stirring of squirrels as neighbors,
chasing laps of acorns around barky table tops.

Mama always said that
I am safe in green mossy socks
& as long as bluebirds
will nest in the rooftop tenements
of the bonnet.

I become so comfortable in the rung
of her sunken knuckles
I swaddle too close to what's left
of a baby’s face  
considering if anyone would notice
a boy leaping away from such
an irresponsible bonnet.