Kathy Paupore

Softly It Enters, Speaks

after Jane Kenyon

She is fireweed struggling
up out of the ashes,
purple petals ablaze...

a smile, a grimace, a gift...

she is a child, open heart
surgery, and crossed eyes...

silence, sign language,
whispers, and song...

she is the first snow, the last
brittle leaf of the winter oak,
the first wildflower bud...

the duckling, awkward,
learning to fly...

the shy kitten, determined,
making her own way...

she is the raindrop clinging
to a pine needle...

the tempest, the eye
of the storm, the sunburst...

she is the one who
always finds my heart
before I know it is lost.

On the Swingset

I'm playing on the old swing
in the hot sun, forever
I pump my legs, kicking
higher and higher
I want to fly up over the top
like a butterfly, free to fly
far away from the dirt
and the rusty screech of chains
as I push harder and harder
to get away from the sound
that comes through the open window
over the flap of the shade
and the blare of the cop show on TV
I keep trying to get away
from the whimpering
the knowing but not knowing
what Daddy is doing
to janie in that dark room
pumping and pumping
I pump my legs until they ache
wings spread wide
I see my sister hunched
on the empty swing next to me
and feel the salt sting
my sunburned cheeks.