This morning, I step outside to pick strawberries, no coat. 
That’s not a good idea, my whole family tells me, one by one,
through a half-open door. I’m trying to convince myself
that someone is stirring milk and a little honey into your oatmeal.
Someone is shaking her head, Nope, you can’t wear sandals 
in winter. There’s no word for who you are to me. Close is 
ghosts, though so alive you buzz and dart. Someone
is sitting through a second-grade conference in a very
small chair. I signed papers that require me to forget you.
My failure at this has invited many people to offer advice,
which could be summarized as: They aren’t yours to worry over.
Someone is singing to you, and you’re singing with her,
and you sing until you are spinning, until you are a spinning,
trembling streak of light through a half-open door.