Late February
By Martha Christina

We idle behind the muddied
school bus; its tail lights flash
and fade and flash
as my son's classmates
jump from the bottom step
into the dirty snow. Bonzai,
one yells. Another: Kawabanga.

The digital clock reads: 8:25.
"It took us five minutes
to get here, Mom." He smiles,
proud of his math skills.

We move up to the cross walk
and he slides toward me,
still unselfconscious at eight;
the static electricity of his kiss
makes us both jump and laugh.
He leaps from the  car
onto ice, slides toward the steps,

and there is no catastrophe today;
just his bright fire
igniting February's gray sky.