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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


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