My sons are on a mission, wielding sticks
and nixing iridescent bubbles
floating their way—they play at being fierce
and pierce proliferating troubles

like seasoned troops opposing looming hordes
with swords raised high, unfazed by battle,
until another brother blocks the path—
then wrath runs dry—they whine and tattle.

The youngest toddles gleefully, just glad
that dad and mom have let him roam.
The world is wide here in the street, no more
than forty feet away from home.

He doesn’t even know he’s getting chewed
by rude mosquitoes swarming, keen
to suck sweet blood from chubby legs—to steal
a meal and waft away unseen.

A line of clouds is marching to the south
while mouthparts puncture precious flesh
and little spheres are drifting, perfect but hollow,
followed by joyful jabs that thresh

ephemeral foes. One day it won’t be fun,
when unexpected threats advance
on cherished heads—the struggle will be real
and feel like war, not just a dance.

For now, the bubbles pop with little labor.
A neighbor smiles. The clouds pass by.
Prepare these boys with fortitude and grace
to face what coming days will bring—
to sing and strive as troubles multiply.

You can listen to a conversation about this poem on the Reformed Journal Podcast.

Photo by Eduardo Barrios on Unsplash