October 25, 2020
Is it too late for things that hope to grow?
What does it say that the sapling’s leaves
have already turned? That the first frost is just
weeks away, and the workers are in a hurry?
How much care does a young tree need in
winter, and who will provide it?
Richard plays on the swings; he takes no notice
of the workers, or the tree, or of Dada fretting
about an election. It is just as well he does not
understand the relationship between metaphor and
extinction. I will stand here through the bitterest
cold, long after the swing is buried in snow
and I fathom what’s making me tremble so:
I’ll know just what my son stands to inherit.