For the young girl in the park who will never know she is a poem . . .

After weeks of cold and dreary skies

This Sunday begins as a blessing on all

Who take on faith now whatever comes,

The given moments of each season that

For a time seem taken from another -

How the sun now on the oaks lets them

Hold onto their last leaves a little longer,

The skirmishing squirrels not burying

The pecans and acorns I give them but

Eating them, contending between greed

And gratitude, this season's prayers we

Say and the ones we keep hidden, and

The sparrows settling in the pines, after

Weeks of quiet lifting their spring songs

Again into the light in praise of it all,

In praise of you, beautiful child, lifting

Too in the long arcs of your swinging,

Singing  your own sweet song of joy.