It's winter in Illinois and Hardees is quiet at four.
She clutches her blanket, a toddler of four,
Time's unsprung in some hurried progression.
A ribbon-tied braid hangs over her shoulder;
Blue eyes flash clear some secret distraction,
Pendulum mittens swing in erattic childhood rhythm.
The clock is wound tight in the wrong direction,
and the wind is blowing hard at the door.
and I press my face to her cheek in affection.
The clock revolves in rapid rotation.
Small swinging feet are brushing the floor,
and the wind is rushing at the door.
her head is bent in dreamy attention.
A lifetime unwinds in small generations.
her fingers work some small-toy chore.
The wind is storming the door.
It's winter in Illinois and she's quiet at four.
The clock is wound in deceptive directions,
And the wind is hard blowing the door.
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© 1995 Jael Bietsch
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March 8, 2000