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.