A year does not have enough beautiful days,
with meadows abloom and the sun ablaze;
so when a delightful day comes along,
not to spend it outdoors seems terribly wrong.

The park is a place where playthings abound -
swing sets, a seesaw, a merry-go-round.
The park is one place I am sure to play
on such a gladsome, grandglorious day.

Have you ever closed your eyes while you swing?
Tossed back your head and let your hair fling?
Pretended that you could actually fly?
That's what I'll do as I swing through the sky.

I'll bounce a ball hard and throw out my jacks,
then make a quick fist to scoop them all back,
or send a kite soaring into the clouds
to the applause of appreciative crowds.

Perhaps I will play by the stream for hours,
looking for tadpoles and picking wildflowers,
rolling my pants up right under my knees
to wade in cold water that makes my toes freeze.

I'll search for the perfect flat skipping stone,
the one nature sculpted for me alone.
I'll place it 'twixt thumb and fingertip
and then flick my wrist to make the stone skip.

A wondrous day is too rare to squander
on ponderous problems too deep to ponder,
so I'll skip my stone just to watch it glide
and with it cast my problems aside.