We head down to the river
Seeking mud
With which to gather new faces

The kids with Bluetooth antennae
Have gathered
In solemn study of the clouds

We do not speak the gulf not
Of generations
Silence half-kin to guilt

I find a flower to pluck from earth
Three tries
It takes my trembling hands

I hand it over trying not to be a show
Meet old eyes
“That won’t help us now.”

We have not done enough to deserve
Our tears
Falling away into fashioned shadows

The children wait for the future
The end
The only promise we ever kept