Brittle stars hum, cackling underfoot,
Piles of mud and brick colored petals,
Gracing the ground in billows,
I watch it rain over her worn shoes.
A singing giggle escapes, and she runs,
Toddling toward a rusty pile of leaves,
Sliding under shady covers,
Where white sunshine used to greet me.
The leaves I see here are old,
They crack and break, dusty squares,
Of dead stars, they shot and no longer,
Shine. Not like her.
Her eyes still flash at unfamiliar things,
Everything is new, and it is music,
To her developing mind, it sings.
And I know this season doesn’t,
But who said moods had to match,
The breeze dances in, weaving through,
I watch it painting her tiny cheeks pink,
A new color, ringed by rustic browns,
And she smiles, with approaching teeth.