a poem by Carolyn Orosz
Rest into it now, dizzying—
this grief for the departed. Tomato gardens, wild clover,
an outdoor shower where the mosquitos hung like rain.
Only isolated parts but each without boundary,
static electricity just another kind of flint,
and from way up here second grade looks
a little silly. The unit on Pilgrims and Indians,
. a Thanksgiving celebration:
. half in bonnets folded from dinner napkins,
. half in headdresses: feathers stapled to a string.
. On the sign-up sheet—your name next to succotash.
. A city made from milk cartons,
. with a paper-towel-tube smokestack
. spewing cotton balls.
. What’s your favorite color?
. —sky over pavement,
. prescription pad blue.
. You wrote the word chrysalis 120 times
. on a piece of red construction paper—
. practice for a spelling test on which
. you would spell tomorrow wrong.
. Small thing made smaller
. each time you need.
. On the windowsill—
. a caterpillar in a plastic cup.