In a clockwise round we touched tall green tree torsos affectionately, their hands high up in the sky. A little girl sat in the neighbor bench, her mom sweeping the park leaves.
This morning we chanced upon the old chrysanthemums of poems that began fearfully with bullock cart ghosts. On the thorn bushes lining the dirt track, there were ghosts for the children in bullock carts. The kids who had their mom’s bellies to hug wondered how the bullock fought its belly fears.
We still have our belly fears but no mom bellies to hug.