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.
