Flower Child. A Poem. A Prayer.

Our eyes connected in isle seven.
“You have something on your face.”
She smiled and so did her mother.
A rose grew and opened on a cheekbone.
A glittered face paint brushed on big.

A five year old in a leotard
danced of innocence.
She woke my joy and worry.
One day a tear will travel the stem,
Past the thorns. A rivulet of emotion.
Life rolling down.
A girl growing up.

What is it about the little ones?
I tell my girls not to grow up.
They don’t listen.
I grab a brush.

“Hold still.”

How do I paint a prayer
like a blossom to
catch the drops?

Comments

  1. I read your poems more than once, stopping to consider them. “How do I paint a prayer like a blossom to catch the drops?” A very good question.

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