Broken Crayons

Determined face, lower lip clenched between teeth
Much as her crayon is clenched in the fingers of her left hand.
Concentration focused as she presses down upon the page:
“To get the colors darker, more real,”
she says.
A crayon breaks.

Fridge and walls speak vivid testimony:
Her efforts, bright collages in near empty rooms,
sing as brightly as any robin ever sang.
“Can you hear my pictures singing?” she asks as
she plays.
A crayon breaks.

Fainter hues dulled by dust, by season’s passage
Still adorn near empty rooms
where now no robin sings nor child plays.
“Promise you won’t forget me.” her voice echos from where
she lays
among the broken crayons--
a heart breaks.