I stop on my daily walk to study their patina,
the color late summer on muscled arms, hands
stretching to smaller hands reaching back.
Light splashes gold on their bronze bodies
as the mother twirls them around. In orbit,
the child wears a mien of pure bliss and
the promise of time, even as tension slips
from interlaced fingers, a gentle loosening,
a braid slowly coming undone. Soon the arc
of mother’s swing will send the child aloft.