Instead of Being Worried, We Tell Stories

by Sherry O’Keefe

Our rooster would be crowing, if we had one,
and the horse we’d name Jeep or Chevy would be rolling
his oat bucket behind us as we walk along the river
to catch our school bus. First day as the new kids
from the country, too poor for any pets. Mousetraps
in the hallway, snakes beneath our porch. We tell stories
the city kids won’t know. God is serving breakfast, scrambling
up a sunrise, explaining how trees breathe, why streams
beg for ice. Is it true, we ask, that stars are lit
by catch-colt boys with slingshots and pebbles rolled
in noble dust coughed from our pockets every time
we’re nice? He nods to show He’s listening, opens
a fresh egg carton packed with twelve new months.
Cracks September open, peels it hard-boil style,
the way we tear labels from old crayolas. Lemon
green, wrinkled maple, frozen river black. We know
this is how new colors are born- melting crayons
in a can, talking with God before the sun
comes up, waiting for our bus.