Caterpillars and bridges
rise and fall like waves, there is
always another
road that starts at the point that
the bottom step ends, where
your tiny bare feet stumble on
the gravel path, determined
to run away from me even
now. The wind lifts the hem
of my cotton dress, hold
it down at the edge here
and here, with one tiny
hand that will someday too near turn
into an adult hand,
in these moments when tomorrow
and yesterday and nothing
all matter equally,
so long as there are bridges
and roads that run forever.
—Published 23rd of March 2023
About Holly Day
Holly’s writing has recently appeared in , and Day’sAnalog SF, The Hong Kong Review, Appalachian Journal. She currently teaches at the Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, the Richard Hugo House in Washington, and WriterHouse in Virginia.