dirt and sunshine

Where is the place in this world for the dirty kids?
The got-dressed-by-myself kids?
The snowboots-in-July kids?
The place where rooster-tail hair
and sticky piggy-tails cause no comment?
Where hand-print smeared jeans
and frayed shirt sleeves are as much the uniform
as diapered bottoms and dusty feet?
Where are the mud pies and salemanders
pony races, real and imagined
and swings with splashed out puddles beneath?
Trees for climbing,
rocks for collecting,
sticks for fishing,
sand for digging,
and worlds upon worlds of glorious creatures
waiting to be met in a single stem of grass?
Where is dirt still worn and cuddled and carried with care
like a baby's blanket lovey?

Each night as the stars begin to sparkle
through that pink and purple glaze
I will scrub you clean in a lavendar bath
and tuck you gently between thick, warm sheets.
But now, go out.
Find that place
of dirt and sunshine.
I won't be far behind.