Curate, connect, and discover
Small hands,
Wrapping hope in a box
That will never
be opened.
Fingerprints left in clay
That crumbles as it dries to dirt beneath the tires of a car already gone;
Life written in streaks of purple glue,
Secret writing fading faster than I can read,
A story no one will ever
Care to decipher.
Small feet
Waiting by the door unsure;
uncaring if they are going in or out
Because the cold is just cold
And they don’t know yet how hard
That it can bite
That life will be
One day
When the car that picks them up is their own
And the ground beneath their boots is a foundation
Built and broken
By those they followed into
adulthood...
And one day
Those Feet,
Frozen by the cold
And by boots grown too small,
Will walk back to the schoolhouse doors that no longer fit them,
And Those Fingers
Will let go of still small hands
And
Pray
That Someone
Still knows how to wrap up hope.