Trying to win you.
I saw a child’s hand,
Opening and closing in a slanting beam of sun,
Cutting across its play-pen world.
She tried to capture the hope of light,
In a small and fat fist.
Feeling the warmth of yellow on flesh,
Fingers folding tight,
She snatches her hand to her face,
But she sits in the shade,
And the light is gone.