THE TULIPS AT THE ANNE FRANK HOUSE
The bookshelf swung
open to reveal steep
and narrow stairs --
she was the same
age as you, daughter,
who’ve grown
as tall as me.
All day she crouched
in that attic
while people worked
in the office below.
I saw
high, thin windows
and imagined
each raindrop felt
a lifetime
as she wrote
in the journal
we have come to know,
her photo on the cover
beaming.
On a door-frame
painted green,
like the inside of
a Spitfire cockpit,
I noticed
initialed dashes
where the children
had compared their heights.
Remember, daughter,
these pen marks are not wasted
though the heart lies
splintered in the street
like plate-glass
from a tailor's window --
and that so much can hinge
on a single smile
blooming with all the others.
– copyright 2019, Thor Bacon
The bookshelf swung
open to reveal steep
and narrow stairs --
she was the same
age as you, daughter,
who’ve grown
as tall as me.
All day she crouched
in that attic
while people worked
in the office below.
I saw
high, thin windows
and imagined
each raindrop felt
a lifetime
as she wrote
in the journal
we have come to know,
her photo on the cover
beaming.
On a door-frame
painted green,
like the inside of
a Spitfire cockpit,
I noticed
initialed dashes
where the children
had compared their heights.
Remember, daughter,
these pen marks are not wasted
though the heart lies
splintered in the street
like plate-glass
from a tailor's window --
and that so much can hinge
on a single smile
blooming with all the others.
– copyright 2019, Thor Bacon
