To My Daughter
       

In the future, starlings will chatter
in the maples. A little, white moth
will flop around in wet grass and a dog
will take it in his mouth, then drop it in surprise.
In the future, there will be smoke, there will be
firelight on faces, there will be music
from stringed instruments, human voices.
Someone will shout at a horse race, someone
will slip on slick stairs, bruise a hip.
There will be words on clean pages. A girl
will read them aloud in a yellow room,
sunlight from a window warming her legs
stretched out on her bed. In the future,
there will be other plagues, other sufferings, people
will hoard food, buy guns, mock each other
in courthouses. Your body's quick wit
knows how to survive it. Fools will shout
in the streets, and you will
ride your bike past the city
to tall trees, glittering water. You will find
people with bright faces, laughter, fruit
set out on long tables. Men will talk
gravely on the news, and you will watch
the river, memorize its colors,
draw in your journal the green spots
on a beetle's wings. You will be alone sometimes,
but full. The moon will rise, soft lights
will come on, the world will turn gentle
when you least expect it. If you can't sleep,
you will brush your long hair
and hum songs to the dark through your wall.

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Copyright © 2022 Jeffrey Bean All rights reserved
from Sugar House Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission