in her triumph of innocence
that dots the watermelon with green
and sculpts the tin into silver
and all I can do is fumble with the few coins in my pocket,
wonder how I got squished between the seasons,
and exhale a breath of pale memory about a woman again
little Shelly jumps on the park bench
then says "I'm taller than you."
and though she's still a few inches smaller
I see she is the height of an oak




