Late night keys dangle in the wind

clouds move along the sky river

wind swirls low to pick up anything

not tied down, not held down

There goes her hat!

The thing that will keep her warm tonight

stomped by feet of shoppers, rejected as trash

her hat, made for one head.

Rain wets it.  Street oil soaks it.

She crosses into traffic, leaps toward the gift knitted

a story just for her. Grandmother’s poem rings

as fingers reach for the flying  thread

as long as a blood vein

by

-Shannon P. Laws

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