The Sycamore’s dried leaves
Of burnished gold
Hang expectantly
From their branches
Ready to fall
Onto the waiting
Ground
***
January cold
Wraps itself around
Southern California
From my window
Three plants
Bitten by frost
In the night
Their leaves shriveled
Browned
On emaciated stalks
In shocking contrast
Green leaves on the hibiscus
Live untouched
***
You live in my heart
Little girl little boy
Never forgotten
Children
Walking to freedom
From Guatemala
Die in Mexico
At the border
Denied America forever
***
Like a flock of songbirds
All colors all sizes
My children my grandchildren
Gather around me
A few precious
Hours
We eat we sing we laugh
Until they fly away
Again
And I am left
To sing their songs
Alone
