Little Sarah

687

I cringe at the curb of every street

where a child has left their guide

And bolted into the danger, there,

eager to gain the other side.

A year ago—or maybe, ten—

one dashed into a winter street,

Taking with her all my love and

going where I hope we’ll meet.

Her little hand and pure, pure heart,

that held and swelled in mine,

Are warm and vivid memories

that recall a happier time.

The bitter, careless, gusting winds

of another winter abide,

Buffeting across the crosswalk

where my little Sarah died.

A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.