(Thank you to our dear daughter, Bailey June, for sharing her poetry.)
Red. The color of your little boots, feet on the wrong legs Poppa called it.
I run down the back steps, the ones dad painted how many times?
Poppas there, on the circular stone at the landing of those worn steps and I leap for him
He’s young with that grin, you know the one
And then he’s gone, I’ve leapt through him and I haven’t held on tight enough
He’s in the next world