The Meadow 165 Letting Go of Me Jesse Curran I need more grace than I thought. —Rumi Like stars of day the tulips are bursting and the children return to the lost kingdom of swings and sandbox. Winter’s gone. But even with one shot in my arm I’m broken. A year with no childcare, and all the lonely zoom boxes. Winter’s gone, but I’m still bundled even in the sun, even when I run. Out in the yard, my girl is wearing knee socks moccasins, a unicorn dress and a rainbow belt. In one hand, a wiggler in the other, a fistful of wild onions. She’s piling them in my grandpa’s tin pail, one of the only things I took before his goods hit the dumpster. He also died in April, also a spring-winter. Also, this maw between elegy and April. No one wants to read a poem about despair. I want to read a poem about wigglers and onions the clang in the pail
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