While on a Walk with a Four Year Old
by Alexandra Lavin
I found a folded piece of paper
Marked by the melting January snow.
“But I can’t feel it.” Five words written
In pink magic marker. He asked me why
I kept it. We sat on the damp curb,
And spoke about the size of passing cars.
He asked which puddles are too deep to step in.
He handed me a leaf, a rock, a box of raisins.
It’s too sunny for a February afternoon.
The violent blues and whites
Scream through the stripes of the blinds
And bite off the tail of my comfortable greys.
The rock in my pocket is pressed to my palm
Though the leaf has crumbled to dust.
And the paper’s still folded at my chest.
In “But I can’t feel it” I trust.