Scratches and Stones

We walk hand in hand. The sand
is full of stones. The slide
has no shine, no arc, no glide.
The trees have scratches, black and gray.
My girl wants to play, so we stay.

She is quick to find a stick. Then
down on the ground. She scratches
the shape of her name, forgets the rust,
she is glad we came.

I am alone beside her, want to guide her.
Perhaps by a shake of my head. But instead
Find a stick of my own and a stone to take home.

Who is this parent? It's apparent
That I missed the moment when I
Could have shown her the strength of the sky
While her shirt dragged in the dirt.

She is done. I let her run
away from me.
Watching incessantly, I let her be.
This is not about me.

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