toddlers

wind through topmost 
branches of ponderosa
pulls the curve of crescent 
moon closer to its heart
that it may listen to 
tears waiting in the future
as the past comes 
round again
insistent 
demanding to know 
if the other path would have been 
the one with more

despite the fragrance of 
half remembered pleasures 
and the first smile 
on the first morning 
when through an opening
a meadowlark’s voice 
gave praises 
carried by the breeze,
still the child’s first question
haunts tangled forests and
starry nights and
floats across the mountain crest
“why?”


pb  ©june 2013