June 21, 2013 § 12 Comments

These children
like fireflies between my fingers
only twinkle for a minute
and I have to catch it.
Hours sending lessons
into careless wind and dropping
songs like stones into rivers
that only rush over them


So often

I am reduced to
rolling vaguely behind their hazy eyes
swishing out in low-rise tides
“did you hear what I said?”
they did,
they say
And sporadically, when asked
they can play back
a jumbled mix track tape they
recorded –
and surprise us both
but they

are fireflies flickering
on my palms
only twinkling for a minute
and as much as every fiber in my fingers
long to pluck it, stuff it
into mason jars filled with moments
that I could open on those long and
hollow, expansive days –
that I could play
back to them when Hanon
isn’t as bright
as the Harry Potter theme –
I refrain

Such infrequent
fragile light
is not my job
to ignite,
but my reward –
and my responsibility
to preserve


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§ 12 Responses to #161

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