Our children do not mean
Their numbers are up, the fireflies
To kill them when they cup
Around the soft bodies, light
Music softens features
The way a mild solvent
Softens the acrylic, yellowing in time

The old habit of sentience
After a storm, the light
I’ve come to feel okay ascribing
Features, the Camperdown elm
Because it was celebrated in a poem
They’ve put a gate around
Cupped it, as a friend