Smell of the cold pine.
Sound of the runners walking up from the lake.
Being a daughter means the world began before you.
Sound of the screen door banging.
Sound of the drowned girl’s sandals on the gravel path.
She isn’t thinking yet of water.
Out for a walk this afternoon
I saw children playing
their uncomplicated games in snow.
Sunset. The cold comes through
that one cracked-open window
where the curtain holds the fading river light.
Up from the street a man’s thin tenor
sings some half-remembered tune.
I think of you, who will not sing again.
Laura Goldin is a publishing lawyer in New York. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Driftwood, Molecule: A Tiny Lit Mag, Club Plum, Blue Heron Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, Bellevue Literary Review, and The Comstock Review.