The child, the miniature
old person waiting in her was worry.
An aloneness, all that
sitting in a tree thinking
the tree knew her thoughts.
Walking home, just walking like that…
A kind of radar. It does ache,
scanning the waters Is
turning to Was turned to who can recall that far
the inch-by-inch days of school.
What got learned piled up or it morphed
to the next thing and left behind
a little smoke.
There are children with
no child inside. But here’s a bird for you, says Spring,
brought back from the dead of
snow and ice. Plus flowers, the first blue (sweet
low-to-the-ground vinca), first yellow
(forsythia’s wild reach every which way).
And those hearts in the garden again, their red
and their white bleed so meticulously
minting sorrow—classic, ridiculous, too many—
one might think them fake, stamped out in some factory
an ocean away, two continents. A good third of
the workers underage, trying so hard.
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