This is a gleeful poem,

with the smell of manure dimmed
and sweetened with familiarity,
with a blanket of barnyard kittens
too soft for metaphor,
mulberry stains in rivulets across our hands
and cheeks
and the cream of fresh milk still wet
on our lips. The straw pile holds
no hidden pitchfork, and
we throw ourselves from the attic
through twenty feet of air
into its scratchy embrace, then dash
back inside, climb as fast
as our limbs will take us to the ledge
where we leap again
and again
and again.