The child’s hand,
cast in plaster of Paris, a simple thing,
flour, water, and ten minutes is all.

The thrill surprises her,
that this likeness, an imprinted
construct of her smallness has the power
to designate her as Some One.

A dreamer, a creator, a maker
whose fingers point to the sky,
she feels the energy
that introduces her to the world.

She doesn’t know yet
that dreams can fade – sometimes
into delightful eccentricity,
other times, pie-in-the-sky.

No matter.

childhood, poetry

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Join Our Mailing List!

Add your information below to join our blog update newsletter. Every once in awhile we'll send you excerpts from the most recently published articles.