The mere trees cast no coolness where you go.
Your small feet press no darkness into the grass.
I know your weight of days, and mourn I know.
All hues beneath the ground are bare grayness.
When I was young, I might have touched your hair,
Gestured my warning, how that fire will gray,
Slight arms and delicate hands grow heavier,
And small feet hasten, though the dark delay.
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.
Sign up for a free account and read any five pieces a month.
Previous
Next