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The Child Lives

Written by Margaret Irvin, Storytellers Committee
February 24, 2011

Walking on young grass then
among trees,
not picking dandelion
or mustard greens
for a bitter dinner—
no, not that—
but skipping under quiet pines
or battling thunder clouds
for one last moment,
arms akimbo like
a human kite floating
on soft earth,
we challenged
the noisy wind.

Now grown up,
the sturdy weedy grass
sustains firm quick steps
evading treacherous mud
on the way to work, to buy,
to bank;
but something calls
like a nursery song,
a bird lightly treading
as though it were I again
lusting with my toes
for that touch
to cushion what
the storm might bring.