On Children

The Little Girl

The little girl

Caught in class
Because her folded secret
Did not get there
In the corner.
“It wasn’t meant for you.”
She sobbed.
“It wasn’t meant for you.”

With the Chalk

My son held the chalk,

And rolled it in his hand
He gazed up
And past the hoop
And past the ash
And past the power lines
And past the rotting spruce
Into the fading ether.
Then he turned to me and said,
And so I did.
“I like that,” he said
Then bent to make
A lavender bow from the stairs
Across the crumbling walk.
“Look!” He said
Pointing down
Instead of up
Then he went inside to play. 

In the Desert

As the car passed through

The dry and aching desert
There were few things that
Caught the awe of the boy’s
Suddenly, after cacti, cliffs
And clouds, 
His arm extended 
And from a fist
Affirmative, a finger unfurled
And pointed to
A hypothetical.
“I think there’s a volcano out there.
“I know it.”

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