Sad

Poem

Published on January 3, 2005 By TaBoo Tenente In Writing

Sad

I can see things the way they always were:
once, her stepfather mowed their yard with a push blade
just two wheels and the rusted blade
churning up the grass
and when she touched the clippings
the color was like cider on her fingers
and he let her try to push,
the handle high above her head,
the heavy iron weighted irrevocably to the earth.

It was like that with everything after awhile,
pushing hard at things much too large,
her young body too soft to understand
things like loss,
and harder things
like the slipping of the canoe through slow water in the summer;
why watching the water drain down
the slippery side of the wooden oar
isn't sad.

Copyright ©2004, ©2005, ©2006 Joshua Suchman. All rights reserved.
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