The red high chair,
Now empty there,
Has carbon foot-prints
On scuffed rails,
And impressions
On the tray.
Like digs from earlier days.
Her first steps were small,
Unsure, unstable,
Needing balance,
Yet proving able.
A two-step dance,
An infant's prance,
An infinite chance,
She tottered to the door,
Drawn and wanting more.
But I fell,
Forlorn,
With those wee steps,
She was gone.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 10:35 AM UTC
The red high chair,
Now empty there,
Has carbon foot-prints
On scuffed rails,
And impressions
On the tray.
Like digs from earlier days.
Her first steps were small,
Unsure, unstable,
Needing balance,
Yet proving able.
A two-step dance,
An infant's prance,
An infinite chance,
She tottered to the door,
Drawn and wanting more.
But I fell,
Forlorn,
With those wee steps,
She was gone.
