#poem #poetry #amwriting 2A


Forgive me for not knowing
the view from those lost shoulders.
Chin resting on that balding pate
and the strong hands that held your ankles
when rolling with the gait, and you pointing
to the world seen above the knee;
you then now free. Free to see the boundless
days, the outstretched: when to be ten
was more real than being old, and more grown up.