With the peeling back of the calendar years, liberal peppering of children
There should be an accumulation, at least a shovel full but
I throw up my hands, having no advice to give.
In the nights up with an ill child I still stare out the windows
Cradle them in my arms, mingling our tears.
How did I know she was that sick those three years ago? I didn’t.
Something in my nose, my throat, muscles in my legs alerted me.
Hysteria erodes credibility but inertia has the power to make fools of us all.
Shut out the cacophony of fear, dig deep in to your gut,
Press your ear to the ground and listen for the pulse of your truth.