another cookie

some will say

this poem is

too square

too dense

too crooked

like a tree

with no boards in it

too crimson

all anarchy and

immodest glances

too loose with foolish promises

too rough with raucous wings

too brittle to do the plowman any good

too sharp to leave with the children

too buoyant to take into church

too nice

too low

too you

some will always say a life is

too little or too much

some will always need another cookie

and a few minutes more at recess