Oh baby,
\nwhose arms reach out
\nin astonishment.
\nWhose childhood was art.
\nCaught like a moth
\nin a net of poverty.
\nDear child,
\nlooking from your photograph.
\nA picture in my mind.
\nThe other picture
\nsomewhere in an album
\nlike a shell buried in sand.
\nShe is ten in that picture,
\nholding a doorway
\nas if shyness forbid her
\nto come any further.
\nI cry, buried in her sorrows.<\/p>\n
She was a happy soul.
\nQuick arms embracing everything.
\nFate threw crumbs
\non her barren table.
\nShe did not know.
\nShe lived in dreams.
\nFound fairies in the garden.
\nPlayed with her children
\nas a playmate.
\nDid not notice
\nhow her brightness was ignored.
\nHow little was on her plate.
\nOnly I knew it.
\nI look at her in my soul,
\nasking, without recrimination,
\nwhy? Why? Why?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Oh baby, whose arms reach out in astonishment. Whose childhood was art. Caught like a moth in a net of poverty. Dear child, looking from…<\/p>\n