The First Scrape

Saw her fall, that familiar sound,

the cry that cracked the afternoon.

Same scraped knee, same patch of ground,

beneath the same indifferent moon.

And suddenly, the years collapsed.

The weight I thought I’d shed and thrown

came rushing back, my spirit trapped

in being first, and all alone.

To watch the patterns start again,

the stumbles I remember well.

I wanted then to tell her when

to be more careful, but I fell

back into silence, just like always.