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Posts Tagged ‘boy’


                  for Thilo
 
To the unmoving body 
of the tiny bird in the grass
below the kitchen window,
the young boy brings a plate 
of white safflower seeds.
Hours later, when the bird
has not moved, one wing still askew,
the boy weeps. His father and I 
sing a death song as we carry 
the almost weightless body
in a brief procession across the yard.
The boy and his mother walk
behind. Her fingers lightly rest 
where his own wings would be.
There is a tenderness inside us
that knows every life is precious
and refuses to pretend otherwise. 
Later, the boy carves a chickadee
into the top crust of an apple pie,
making of grief something beautiful.
I want to protect that part of him—
the part that feels, that respects, 
that honors. I want to awaken
that part in us all—the part
that dares to care deeply, 
the part that knows every
life matters.

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In the heart of the city
the boy runs,
he leaps and arrives
in every puddle
until he is drenched,
dazzlingly wet.
His laugh is the laugh
we forget is always here
waiting to be laughed
come sun, come rain.

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