Thursday, May 20, 2010


Your father ties the ribbon round
Your wrist - his fingers sure, and infinitely calm,
inscrutably adult.
You are not that crying little girl,
the other one,
Whose hope and happiness were sucked
up to the blue abyss
of smiling sky;
Ice cream sticky on her mouth
and mingling with tears
From eyes that strain, though she is led,
stumbling and looking back
after the hopeful speck
that dwindles to oblivion:
Tethered, safe, your prize bobs overhead
Mysterious, secure, and at one tug, in reach
Shining, magical, alive.
And later then, at night
skating gently
in the silent soothing
currents of the air,
along your bedroom ceiling,
it watches you, with friendly eye:
lulls you now to sleep, to dream
the monsters and the shadows kept at bay.
But morning sunshine finds you
Waking, eager - it is there
but low and sad
it skulks along the floor
as if ashamed
its luster lost
its power dead.