at my age
dead could happen anytime

the weather
no longer boring conversation
creek muddy all winter log trucks back and forth
all and every

my granddaughter’s hair in goddess braids
a pattern known everywhere ever since before
glacier was even a word before
snow started stopping and starting
in random geographies before
a child’s hair became

it’s only just begun they say
the worst is yet to come they’re glad
they won’t live to see         I say
apocalypse births its own demise
even now

it’s scarabs
swarmed against the window
that block the light
the crumbling and jackhammers
construction going on in the basement and

in the dark bud of night
a child
grows leaves from his heels like green wings.

Hannah Thomassen  lives and writes in the forested foothills of  Oregon’s Cascade mountains. Her work has appeared in Big BridgePresenceWindfallVerseweaversVoice Catcher, and two anthologies from Wising Up Press. In previous lives she was first a teacher, then an RN. All her lifetimes have been instructive.