Saturday Poem

The Forest is Burning in the Palm of My Hand

My son comes running across acres of grass.
He is twenty seven years old.
He is eleven years old. He is
four years old.

He turns his hand up to show me
the distant inner glow, smoke
drifting from him.

He wants to see so I lift
my hands to the old paths
where fire often danced;
plateaus of desolation inside my fist.

My son comes running
across acres of grass.
He is four
years old. He
is eleven years old.
He is twenty seven
years old.

by Lou Lipsitz
from Seeking the Hook
Signal Books, Chapel Hill, NC
.

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