The storm came on sudden as a seizure

flaying the tender skin of spring with hail

the size of peach pits so by morning

the blush of green lay in sodden drifts

spackled with mud, as did two brown

sparrow chicks, pushed from the nest

as they fledged when the second hatch

was laid and homeless they pled for

shelter until pelted into silence,

well outside their Father’s care.

© Dana Hughes 6.22.19

The old man looking down from a high window

on the memory care floor at children he’d forgot

were his, despite prompts that stirred the soup

of thought though nothing like a name or face

broke the surface before they said, as always,

“we’ll see you next week,” and yet the way the

son’s hands sank into pockets to fish for car keys

toggled a wire like the switch on a Lionel 00 train,

and he strained to find a latch where no latch

would be shouting, “GEORGE!  GEORGE!”

at the departing man below whose name

had always been Michael.

©Dana Hughes 6.19.19