For E., At Five
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Small Branches Poetry


For E., At Five


Still short enough for the hazards

of doorknobs and cornered countertops

my son --a destroyer of flowers,

each petal dashed, the stems bent,

broken. You are my extinguisher

 of candles, a wraith among

your fathers closeted shoes. 


Hobbled, your tongue stumbles

over the cobblestones of sound.

On tiptoe for the gate latch

 you speak with  eloquence

to all I would have--

reaching for the solutions

in interlocking pieces,

then  moving beyond

to wide fields, shimmering.