Today

photo by Susan Sink

Here, late, middle, age,
the trees mean more
and the sky means more
and some of the people
I need to patch up with are dead.

Mystery, that forest, is expanding.

Remember when we were little,
and the trees were city,
and the baby birds fell from nests
into pools of yellow on sidewalks?

We placed them in shoe boxes,
to contain death somehow,
and we sang to them,
ringing rosies around them.

That’s what today was like.
The songs helped.

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