first grade—walking home the long
way because along that way are new
daffodils. Today we’ll play
at your house. Deep
in your maple shade, we eat Oreos
and fondle plump pink valentines
on feathery stalks. (Your mother
calls those flowers bleeding
hearts, but they don’t.)
We talk of fairies—are there
any? You think not.
Your baby brother wants
your lap, and hits me on the head
with his new garden trowel.
I cry. You kiss
the hurt spot, make better.
© by Diane Lee Moomey.
Used with the author’s permission.