These early years a nonstop lesson
In life’s most valuable baubles:
Thieved slipper, stained scrunchie
The last fresh lemon cradled between
Itty-bitty goblin hands, eyes agleam
At the very top of the stairs
In my own nightstand drawer, a bowl
of puerile trinkets: shells, crystals, stones
Harvested from a distant Grecian sea
So smooth in my palm they made me cry
Life has a strange way of unfolding right?
HP texts while I shop for yogurt and bread
Hours before evening’s gentle ritual
Of disassembling a tired magpie’s shiny nest