Puddle

by AZELYN KLEIN

Raging. Fear. Gray.
Some call it dreary or drab
despite the grab, the pull of the roots,
but it is your story,
your May Day,
your birth.

Pit-pat. Thrush. Gush.
Youth finds you growing,
stretching your arms and fingertips
to reach a new sidewalk,
a new grass line,
a new curb.

Billow. Wisp. Sigh.
Retreat your Mother Sky,
and hopes rise.
Face reflecting people walk,
buses splash,
canines trot.

Still. Sun. Heat.
Father Time cups your soul
in his hands
You’re shrinking,
he’s drinking.

The sidewalk is dry.

You are but a memory
that reflected
the way we held hands.

Once.