The townspeople
parade down
Main Street
in a motley ribbon of
bellowing brass
and snare beat.
Sun sneaks past
whipsy cloud shroud
to warm the
vibrant crowd-
loud and dressed
in their equinox best.
We stand,
waving, clapping,
watching
the throng pass.
When a child breaks
from the winding pack.
She’s five or so,
clad in
ballet clothes
with felt wings
draped around
her pink shoulders.
She shuffles toward us,
extends her slight hand,
and passes me
a packet of seeds-
wildflowers for
a someday garden.
She’s gone before
I can thank her,
moving on to
pass out another,
leaving me to consider
the seeds
and feel
the weight of her
dormant offer.
Make
this place
beautiful,
please.
Now, obviously,
these are just some seeds,
and the girl moved with simplicity.
Indeed, her thought
was likely not
more than
Flowers,
because
flowers
are pretty!
But the gravity I feel
is more than real—
a pressing guilt
and a pulling need
to leave behind something
wonderful as the
wonders left for me.
pm poetry 