In The Playgrounds Of Your Never-Ending Holiday Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This day will be a fieldtrip,
Skipping with arms enfolded in a small click of friends:
We will have songs to sing, or we will evaporate:
For the rivers come here thirstily: they get salty from grief:
They disappear like tangled ribbons into the
Ever glades;
And when I look up it is into your transom, while the
Weather shakes the hedges and the blue flowers of plumbago
Stick to your lips and temples,
And make you close your eyes and remember the soft touch
Of your mother, and the faithful things she told you
In your crib; so come with me, if you believe me, if you
Have nothing left to do:
The sky is starting out our runway of blue blankets; it will come
Down and gather us up and remark that even it is not as
Blue as your eyes,
Or the gears of your bosom that used to run tripping around the
School yard, your senses funneling the awkward sounds of your
Budding immortality; and I stole things for you
And followed in the footsteps and in the playgrounds of your
Never-ending holiday.