On Poetry

Dear Portia,

Let me share a poem I made back when I was still pregnant with you. Somehow, even then, I knew you’d be born with a mind of your own. The truth is this was more intended for me. You made me grow up more than I thought.

Little Girl,

You’re growing up way too fast
Now instead of taking snapshots of the clouds,
You tie yourself upside down in sheets and filaments
That string themselves behind your broken
Rose colored glasses

Sometimes I catch you
Making thought bubbles when you steal secret naps
And I wonder if those flights of not-supposed-to’s
Glided you back to your old self,
With skirts that billow with the wind
And fingers that traced shooting stars

But your thoughts are sound at best,
And I wonder again how you can keep
From being wounded
When you don’t even slide grass blades in your hands

Little Girl,
When the winds are finally still,
Try not to miss it too much

After all, remember that back when I was supposed
To run with kites,
I ran with you instead

Soppy as always,
Mom

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