As I sit on this stump and read
from these pages of your cousin's pulped flesh,
I burst with the excitement of next year seeing you draped in color,
You. master of graceful loss.
You, vessels of wasted breaths,
remind me of aching regret
and how we live despite it all.
The adults wonder while I write,
"would you rather learn to love
from a tree, or a goldfish?",
and I ask the question all week long.
Perhaps too many people say tree,
not for what you are, but for what you give.
Is it love if it is also exploitation,
the story of the taker and the fool?
My father says a child's love can never rival
that of a mother's on days when she yells
and I slam my bedroom door shut.
He is probably right.
Some others choose you for your age,
and I wonder what my grandma would say
from these pages of your cousin's pulped flesh,
I burst with the excitement of next year seeing you draped in color,
You. master of graceful loss.
You, vessels of wasted breaths,
remind me of aching regret
and how we live despite it all.
The adults wonder while I write,
"would you rather learn to love
from a tree, or a goldfish?",
and I ask the question all week long.
Perhaps too many people say tree,
not for what you are, but for what you give.
Is it love if it is also exploitation,
the story of the taker and the fool?
My father says a child's love can never rival
that of a mother's on days when she yells
and I slam my bedroom door shut.
He is probably right.
Some others choose you for your age,
and I wonder what my grandma would say
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