for my children, for all children
I want to give you the kind of day we didn’t have today—
a day when the wide blue sky makes you rush outside,
when we go to the park and meet your friends
and you run to greet them—you hug and play chase
and tag and tackle and whisper in each other’s ears.
I want to give you a day warmed through by laughter,
with crisp green leaves already on the trees.
And on our way home we could stop for ice cream
and joke with the women at the counter
about how there’s not much news to share.
A day when you can’t imagine being afraid. When
you fall asleep not wondering when someone we know
will die. Instead, the world gives us this day—
this day with its fears and its warnings—and
I give you what I can: A scarf to play dress up in.
A homemade pumpkin pie. Dance party in the kitchen.
Three tired and perfect words. Open arms.
A reminder the sleet will make the grass green.
Secrets I will keep for now to myself. The slow tide
of my breath beside you as you fall asleep.
