Carnival

Carnival was long since past

July 2004 and March 2022

Carnival was over. Spring – and Easter – were not yet here.

You were too young to wander the streets by yourself,

showering paper confetti on passersby.

So two bags had come to rest here in the country,

in the basket by the door.

Let me scatter them outside, you said.

I hesitated. I knew you wanted to watch

the dots of colored paper

flutter down, lilting through the air,

landing like so many stars on the grass.

Oh well, I thought. OK. When it rains

they’ll dissolve and go away.

Now, months later, it has rained. It has poured.

The grass from green has turned to brown.

But the colored dots of paper linger on.

Recalling you. And carnival. And your six years.

And my mistaken conviction that a few hours of rain

would reduce these bits of paper to nothing.

How long will it take?

How old will you be when they return to earth,

perhaps to nourish a seedling and start their cycle all over again?

Then when the seedling has become a tree,

and carnival is once more over,

two bags of leftover confetti

will be outside the villa door

and your grandchild will ask

Grandma, can I scatter the confetti outside on the grass?