And out there is a world
a child will inherit.
No longer the grass
against a vanilla sky,
the house on a street
and manicured trees,
nor twilight lamps
softening the night.
Nothing as picturesque as a painting.
And every day
with eyes into the world
to see what was coming:
the beauties
that belied the threats,
like a rolling wave
fringed with red.
And though there are signs,
the world is slow
as it turns;
and it turns normal
until it’s not.
I am me 