from this country porch
the world seems to be doing its thing:
sun setting   moon rising
frogs croaking   calves bawling
                       you keep your eyes
on the thin border of the horizon
without turning around
without blinking
in your somewhat serious voice
you ask “what is a tomboy?”

hummm
how to tell your seven year old
granddaughter about such a term
its history longer than
all’s well that ends well
from bad boy to bad girl
a leap like a genetic mutation,
today it’s a wild romping female
and how long will that last

who called you that
some out of fashion adult
your baby teeth are gone
and so are your barbies
now you play in the dirt
and dig for worms
in cops & robbers you’re the robber
you climb trees and jump
out into bales of hay
days go by without brushing your hair

pink has left the evening sky
moonlight defines what is seen
and what is not
any answer is put off till morning
it’s that brief period between fireflies
and complicated explainations
                     you run down the night path
to your tent
fifty yards from the house
where you will sleep out
for the first time 
by yourself