Leaves of a different cut, | perceiving other winds, | the children blow in spring | and laugh aloud like children. |  | Smiling, Sheila rocks forever, | flings her fluttering birds like hands | to pattern the winds before her. | Angela returns a stranger smile | as her palms mold a phrase in the air. |  | Choo-choo-the-big-train-is-coming | down-the-track. . . . | The children shove the train with effort-words, | half shouting like children, elbows round the wheels. |  | If you cannot touch them, they will touch you. |  | The little girl who grins | at her fingers all day — will we teach her | colors and to grow beneath her bangs? | Leaves of this tree cannot think crimson | as the autumn hillside ripens. | Jerry is the worker around this place, | he says, and smiles the wastebaskets | out the door, bruising the corridor walls. | Ask him — he can tell you he is twenty-one. |  | Leaves of a different cut | with once-twisted stems, | shake endangered in a March wind laughing, | held reversed in an ever-greener spring.