filled the frame of girlhood; Illness, not the Confederates marching:
it was impossible to sleep in that night:
one turned to left, then to right: cannons roared. I have a burn on my arm still.
Of course some of my days were dazzling white as birch.
But mainly I remember nights:
the long tunnels
down which jet & winds spilled
their fuel lit then by the imaginative mind of the child.