sadness is a raw wound wrapped in bandages
living in the thought of a picnic without dancing ants
a family carrying a basket with lost Sundays and sandwiches

listening to the radio, pretending to dance
bitter the old man who can no longer stand to eat corn
toothless, he remembers the river swallowing a closing glance

his son, innocent, had been whisked away
mother wren sang a song of inequality to her infant child
harvested wheat, like pieces of bound trust, what would Ruth say

tiny red boots thirst for the rain to play a game
rainbow dancing, colors smiling in puddles cooling skin
gray hair still smells of lavender, she smiles and jumps the same

she lived in a rum bottle with them as a child
but oh how tiny feet have spun time and ridden life
songs know her name and…