In Hand
A mom and child of five passed by,
Up from the ferry crowd.
The mother focused on the path;
The daughter’s head was bowed.
The walkway, tended lovingly
By garden volunteers,
Was bursting with the flora that
This time, each spring, appears.
Amid the tulips, daffodils
And pink and purple blooms,
A host of birds alit, attracted
By their sweet perfumes.
The girl, though, was oblivious,
For tightly clutched in hand,
Her mother’s cellphone all of her
Attention did demand.
It seems a shame that childhood,
With such beauty there to glean,
Misses out on making memories,
Distracted by a screen.
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