sand grains rough on my hands
so heavy and warm from
bathing in the liquid sun drops
so cold from sleeping in the night.
frozen sun drops; after fall comes spring
and with spring comes Death

death of violets
flowers that rock toward and away from
the children who pick them
the stems, broken bent,
their hearts, withered blue
frozen. already dead when
the gold crown of Death approaches

little fingers pick apart
silky soft blocks of ice
tear and rip and scream and yell
count the petals and crush the leaves
that fall

they fall to San Francisco
the bridge they land on,
not as cold, as homey, as kind
no looks, no words
step and crunch brown aces
under boots, under heels, under bare feet
no little fingers