All children want the treasures blooming under rocks
and wedged like blades in the tree bark.
Their little red hoods weave through the canopy of leaves
like wind blown poppies.
All children lie and lie and scream about wolves.
At the very instant grownups tire, turn away,
the sharp-toothed maw clamps down.
We tell them, Don’t play with matches,
and they strike the match,
become proverb, become smoke.
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