Sunday, October 29
LEARNED HELPLESSNESS
I slow my morning pace, permit
my son to pluck a flower. He wants
the rocks, too, and the sticks that fall
from the trees like vestigial limbs. I am
in charge to an extent. He asks to go
home, says the sun is too hot. My winter
baby, born two months before this endless
blizzard buried the world. The snow
burns, the sky sags, my son crushes
the flower in his weak fist. I permit
him to pluck another.
(Jess Smith)