Standing on a streetcorner
making children sad.
The shade splinters sun
and my daughter from another room
spears me with a laugh.
I'm climbing the walls of guilt.
I feel the echoes
of your coming fury.
Every dying plant is reinherbated
growing sans boundaries:
One age, one stratum of stretching for light.
Of farting noises, ice cream cones
and springing eagerness for chocolate.