Find and share the perfect poems.
Without commas in her gaze,
the little girl dribbles colons with each breath
and swears an exclamation mark
is a lollipop:
“Is growing up for real or make-believe?”
Dot dot dot, I gasped.
A question mark is a fisherman’s hook.
I’d taken the bait of uncertainty,
when she offered me as consolation,
wrapped in quotation marks, a single Smartie.
With every stroke of her pencil
the little girl unfurls dreams
and traces childhood’s uncertain roadmaps.
A twisted loom,
lines on a page mending sorrows
which she weaves into life’s purity.
In a scarring script
she tattoos the wavering future
on the bare skinned wall.
In the end, tree, a cloudy shelter will come
to cover your dry, aged branches.
It will lend you, short on green,
the white glow of its weightlessness
As a drop undoes the cloud into tears
I’ll tell my children:
no, the tree didn’t die,
your childhood sun has set.