I Found a 1950s “Answer and Color-in Book”, by Jennifer Barber

One day the children played

in the kitchen.
in the cellar.
in the yard.

The yard looked like

a meadow.
a forest.
an island in the sea.

The children forgot their

mud cakes,
swing set,
sticks,

when a girl taught them

cat’s cradles.
clay people.
folded paper boats.

Late afternoon, whispering, they lay

in a sandbox.
on the sidewalk.
in the grass.

Each knew the others had

a mother.
a father.
brothers, sisters, dogs.

They traded blood oaths that foretold

how close.
how long.
at what cost.

Everything That Happens Can Be Called Aging, by Carl Adamshick

I have more love than ever.
Our kids have kids soon to have kids.
I need them. I need everyone
to come over to the house,
sleep on the floor, on the couches
in the front room. I need noise,
too many people in too small a space,
I need dancing, the spilling of drinks,
the loud pronouncements
over music, the verbal sparring,
the broken dishes, the wealth.
I need it all flying apart.
My friends to slam against me,
to hold me, to say they love me.
I need mornings to ask for favors
and forgiveness. I need to give,
have all my emotions rattled,
my family to be greedy,
to keep coming, to keep asking
and taking. I need no resolution,
just the constant turmoil of living.
Give me the bottom of the river,
all the unadorned, unfinished,
unpraised moments, one good turn
on the luxuriant wheel.