The girl and her brother are back, their mittens
and scarves bright in the leafless garden.
And their laughter, their shrieks as they run, hiding
and seeking and making believe outside my window.
Taller than I’d remembered, the girl’s legs not-at-all
boyish, tiny breasts, I am sure, budding under
the jacket; tiny eggs stirring in warm, dark places.
One of these days she’ ll leave her brother behind,
will put up her hair and be off. And the boy will stand,
as he stands now, in the frozen lilac that isn’t
a lilac, but some sort of castle or cage; the girl
will not see him, or hear him, she will not be there.