No longer baby, not yet boy,
perfect skin, backyard tan 
a crown of curls, full pink lips,
barefoot, spellbound, tiny man—
You stand in thick damp grass, arms
raised, palms open facing up.
A plastic gadget froths and churns
a cloud of bubbles floating up.
These air-born soapy globes are yours.
“Bubble, bubble,” you repeat, 
pointing as they rise, pop,
and vanish into summer’s heat.
Next year you will reach and grasp
these magic shapes that never last.
                        

 
ashes spread
pale foreheads
 
souls cling
to solid things
 
the light is always
lengthening
 
in one hemisphere
in one urban garden
 
a pastel crocus
is on the move
                        

No pleasantries. Six women wait, alone.   			 
Unalike save for the clinic gown.  
One taps her toe, a sandaled metronome.
One quickly flips through Time, her head bent down.
A wall of water dives through pastel green,
inside a room of vulnerable breasts.
One fears she has a cancer gene, 
a heartbreak that her history suggests.
One remembers infants’ greedy lips, 
mornings half-asleep and milk-white nights.
They all recall their lovers’ fingertips      		
and conjure scenes of jeopardized delights.
They breathe the common air. They wait. They turn		  
away from eyes that mirror their concern.