Cover: Kathy Bruce, Reaching the clouds, collage, private collection (For information contact the Editorial Team)
Advice We Give the Ones We Love
I met a man this morning in the shade
of a poplar, his two sons beside him,
one hugging his leg to shield himself
from all the dangers of our world.
Abutting their swath of green was
the flat, gray asphalt of a parking lot
where a girl with bow-tied plaits
protruding from her pink helmet
pedaled circles on a shaky bike.
Just her second time, the father said,
voice tremulous, and I could see
their many laps together—her pumping
toward the future, him trotting behind,
one hand on the seat, spooning out
hard-earned wisdoms, knowing soon
he must let go. Today, he grimaced
as she nearly toppled on a too-quick turn,
shocked O of her lips swallowing teeth.
When she balanced and found her line,
he released a shudder of breath
Not so fast, yelled the older boy,
brave enough to stand on his own,
his blue helmet and bike jumbled on grass
like spectators outside the sun’s spotlight.
I know, I know, she shrieked,
pedaling hard on the straightaway
then gliding to take the next corner
slow.
Hourglass
Our lives are but specks of dust falling through the fingers of time. —Socrates
Do not rue
how quickly sand flies through
its waist, how many grains you spent
naïve and innocent,
the pains
you suffered—young, untrained—
headlong dives into surf without a glance
into breaking crash of chance.
But scream
you should at waking dreams
where shuffling, supposed wise, you stared
at dunes you never dared
to climb.
Like boulders surrendering to time
and mountain streams that through them whet
their bulk to granules of regret,
repentant old
will point to growing void and coming cold,
see all they wished they could have done
on beaches in the sun.
