They say that
-apparently-
I am a grown up.

Sit straight
Stand tall
Wear this
Don’t fall.

Do this
Not that
Try this
Try that

I thought I was a grown up
Well, they say that too

But really
-not apparently-
I am a child.

Fail test
Take track
Room mess
Hunchback.

Street food
Another book
Random mood
Weird looks


I wonder why they name us so,
With titles so bizarre
And scary
Because
-in truth-
we are all children with blackened hearts.

We hurt ourselves
And each other.
I Love my sister,
And I Love my brother.

Sorry heart
Angry smile
Bad start
Hard trials.

I am child.
Nothing else
Maybe a grown up
But mainly just myself.

At last the autumn
wind has stripped
the branches bare.
Even insubordinate
trees now stretch

their naked limbs
along a leaf of sky;

timber ledger lines
compose a staff
where birds rest
as quarter notes,
the nested chimes
of winter’s song.

You and I unlace
our leather boots.

We wait for snow,
white and absolute,
to change the score,
to blanket measured
roots, a silent chorus.