Dead spring, we march (she and I)
on suburban sidewalks. She strollered
asleep; my stitches still healing.
We pass snow-damaged yards, flowers
unbirthed still — above us: wing-music,
birds aflutter. She (my daughter,
yes) does not know them yet (birds)
by name — only their darkness: bleary dots
across an ashen sky — but I say (as if she
cares): entends-tu les oiseaux?
Michelle S. Ramadan is mother to a bunny-loving dimpled two-year-old. She lives, teaches, and writes in Massachusetts.