Falling red, closed honeysuckle-like blooms
Beneath child’s light tapping toe.
Mother turns to look,
fewer footsteps beside her gait.
Soaking in small daughter
Tapping on hop-scotched sidewalk,
Returns by way of mortar
And concrete houses’ gates.
Two lowered heads tasking,
Popping vine’s red fallen blooms
To crackling morning’s crispness
On a hundred afternoons.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
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