This morning my girl let me braid her hair, draw
the brush along her crown and reveal
the white-pink of a part through ash brown waves,
wile she sat and sobbed. The morning had been torn
n two by sad news. She cried, and the morning
was torn in two. Tears traced her cheeks.
Beneath my hands, her hair was smooth.
I folded it over and under itself.
The end of her childhood looks like a snagged sweater--
and unraveling that might be slowed but not stopped--
or the branch I can see from my kitchen window,
thick near the trunk it twists to join
the lace on lae of neighboring limbs
as they arch away and out of view.
Outside a wet snow falls and melts, travels the gutters,
and runs down thehill, drawn to the Kill Van Kull.
But there are places where snow falls and stays,
grainy and too heavy to blow away,
where the past presses against the deep past,
until a glacier is formed.
Photo: Hemera Technologies, Picspree.