Alison Roh Park
You have a choice, little girl.
There are no arms
at the end of this jump.
Remember what came
before: the smell of cedar, your love
of wolves, their fur against snow-laden
branches, malted candy in hot palms,
the rattle-roar of the train above,
the tremendous disappointment
of summer's end, the announcement
of cicadas, your akimbo stance,
the best years of your childhood.
Thirty years now:
you know this is it.
How, not what, for all life.
You are beyond full.