Leaving home with just a vague desire to be washed in the morning air,
We arrive at an arched gate, hammered into shape more than 1 c. ago.
It is a portal to another world, I say, as we leave Queen St. behind
And ramble through Bellwoods towards the carving of the howling wolf.
We stroll through as gently as the tall swaying grasses beyond the gates; But
We’re hardly past the inscription about the school that once stood there, when,
Filled with some errant inspiration, a little voice escapes the wagon I’m pulling,
Crying: Ice cream, daddy, ice cream.
My son, though recently fed, clearly wished to repeat our last outing,
And so keeps up his chant until I bend to his level to mull his want
At eight in the morning, to lick a creamy afternoon treat.
But I see only his mother frowning at my caving, And
Then my shivering in the 20 degree chill she’d effect,
So I steel myself and declare:
“Little man, it’s too early — much too early — for ice cream!”
Still, his cry, following no rules, was like the summer day’s heat
Bouncing from wall to wall, willfully rising to God knows where,
Calling me out of distraction and into the plump, unruly, world of babes.
Ah! . . . Ice cream for breakfast, why the heck not?