The grass grows, uncut, promissory.
The sky is careful, only
fragments of humming break through.

My grandson offers his cheerios,
one by one, to the open mouths of flowers.
If he drops a cheerio, he picks it up
and tries again.
This is serious business,
the feeding of flowers.

I keep secrets because I must —
bees are dwindling,
and without them
the apple tree has stopped
making apples.

Who could tell a child such a thing?
This is not the world I meant to give him.

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