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.