|
| in passing (second time) | |
| so secretly vulnerable, | |
| you child, | |
| the restless, intense little girl | |
| with the ash hair and steel eyes, | |
| who still makes strong showing | |
| in her silent fight with mid-life; | |
| perennial grace, | |
| draped in your soft-fitting white: | |
| the only caress | |
| you allow of yourself. | |
| and if someone held you, | |
| I think you would shatter | |
| to sharp gleaming slivers | |
| before you would fold in their arms | |
| and when we passed | |
| I averted my eyes, | |
| in case you'd read in them | |
| the pain of what I just said. | |
| © Jon Bohrn (1999) |
|
