of the child
of the garden
in the wild
of the trodden upon
by tiny feet,
the ones whose prints
do barely leave
a mark in the dirt

to be that age, to weigh so little
to have all that you are and will be
contained in that compact, delicate body–

show and tell.
braids down my back.
saddle shoes 
and herringbone tights.
a white sweater,
pilled with fuzz at the wrists.

of the child in the garden
of things that grow
and growing seasons
and how, now matter how
we wish it were not true,
we come to speak
of things that will be picked
or plucked-
or not,
pulled up at the roots
marked with indelible ink:

this one will go far…
this one will stay lanky…
this one, pulled by the ends of
her straw colored braids,
must walk a long and rock-laden path…

blinking, through blindness,
we wonder what kindnesses
might have been there,
planted in rows,
pressed one by one
by a steady thumb
into the soft and ready earth.



today began brighter
than i remember bright being.
sweetest in its first moments-
she, next to me, we
were sleeping with the window open,
the sound of the stream
a thing newly remembered.
sweetness upon sweetness
the gifts piling up
before i even opened my eyes.
and when i did, there was sunlight
on the branches,
at the edges
of the buildings,
on the lengths
of the wires..
there was sunlight on the floor,
brighter than i remember it being-
brighter than it should have been
bright like an eye
like a very blue eye.