They outdo each other
drawing secret metals
from the earth
to turn magenta, crimson,
orchid, sun-bather cinnamon.
They wrap the brown grass like a present.
Where have they learned
this extravagance of sun,
this flaring so improbably
into talent? Look. This one eating
fire, that one juggling
silver knives.
Like a child stepping from
the chorus line of an average family,
each one is a prodigy, defying the odds.
All summer they were rooted,
unable to move, unable
to scratch their most frantic itch.
They will roam far. They will never return.
But tonight they sing in the yard like violins,
calling the last ordinary, human child home.