— Casey FitzSimons
The best thing he can think to do is jump
into frigid river-snowmelt.
Heart-startling cold and his wild whoop
crack the whip of youth, a wing through cloud.
The best thing she can think to do is build
rock sculptures on the bank. Taking time to make
short-lived things with chance components
restores her to the whims of youth.
She laughs at his clear boy-yell, watches
the fluted edge of his optimism flash.
The best thing I can think to do
when she e-mails her delight
is remind her, as she knows I will,
she’d better know CPR.
My crabby admonitions heighten
her defiance, run counter to his instinct:
There will always be
old rocks, new rivers.