May 9, 2015 § 1 Comment

I step into a row
and see the first shoots to break
the soil
grasping for strands
of twine strung
between supports
like a line of 
emerald cloaked monks 
beckoning skyward  
for that elusive reveal
I fight the urge to lower
the string closer
to their curled arms
much as I did 
the urge
to push 
the low branch
of the crabapple
for a granddaughter 
we all must learn 
to climb on our own
to stretch
just as
I had taken 
my hand off the branch
it was that
I pulled away
from the string
little ones
(c) 2015 Fred Whitehead 

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