Little Sarah

1630

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 we’ll surely 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 frigid, carefree, gusting winds

of another winter abide,

Buffeting across the crosswalk

where my little Sara died.

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