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by Greg Watson
What will you remember of
this, my precious one,
when the years have collected
in you like the incalculable
orbits inside the hearts of trees?
Will you recall the quiet,
the darkened windows of storefronts
reflecting our movements
as we passed, masks erasing
the faces of the few out walking,
those who once greeted
you with smiles and waves?
Will you recall your own shrieks
of laughter playing indoors,
the forts constructed from pillows
and blankets, as if this was the safest
corner of the world we could find?
Or perhaps you will remember
the robins and house finches answering
the calls you practiced daily,
how the rabbits became almost
unafraid, soft gray clouds scattered
upon the lawns, allowing you to
get nearly within reach
with your outstretched hand.
I hope you will somehow remember
the wonder of the world pausing
before it opens all at once for you.
I hope you will remember how
we still held hands while crossing
the street, though no cars
were coming from either side;
we held each other just the same.