Pale purple flowers, falling one by one,
strew the brick steps and sidewalk where she plays.
The wind chimes resonate in morning haze
soon to be burned to nothing by the sun.
She squats to wad some flowers in a ball,
thrusts fistfuls through a railing, lets them drop
on plush grass, smiles, and turns without a stop
to squat again—as if she’ll clear them all.
Her father sits hunched over on a wall.
Protective, tired, he trains his eyes on her;
the street beyond dissolves into a blur
of trees, parked cars, and condos. In a lull,
the chimes grow still, and then he hears her sing,
in nonsense syllables, the end of spring.

Original appearance in Alabama Literary Review

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