what happened
to the grubs we picked/from the oak twig/that spring we found the sun

You remember,
the golden days,
when children would run
straight into my arms,
and hug as tight as
their little bodies would allow.
The closeness of cheek to cheek,
little fingers, dirty feet.
And now a chill takes me;
the haven turned
to a precipice; me on one side,
them on the other.
My arms can't reach,
my hands can't wipe the tears
on their cheeks, my cries frozen into
silence.
I am alone with misery;
she holds me by the hand...
-------
I think this is a wonderful poem. Somehow, it could be better maybe, stronger. But it's good as it. I'd take the last two lines off. Who is "she" and we know your misery from the other lines.
sg
-------
I see you followed my suggestion. I hope I was right. I don't know if anyone else has an opinion. I'm just not sure who she is. it isn't clear to me. I don't want to mess with your good poem. what do you think? for my knowledge, who is "she"?
sg