Family Sampler

"You'll poke
your eyes out"
was the litany
of my childhood-
the warnings against
sticks, stones,
& broken bones;
the woods-
who knew
what lurked
in the hearts
of trees
with their
wild black arms
and broken dreams?

Caution was
stitched into
samplers;
Safety embroidered
in counted cross-stitch.
I learned to never
talk with wolves
peek into cottages,
taste greener grass

Today, the sun
diamonds the snow;
the surface crust is
hardpack, glare ice.
You're only two,
my youngest daughter,
but fear's not on
your wordlist.
We climb our neighbor's
sloping yard:
I push you off,
my small blue spinner,
and watch you whirl wildly
on your round red disk.

Yet still
I hear the litany-
"the edge
the tree
those coming rocks."