Oh, little girl,
You golden child,
With your loose ringlets of red.
I saw you in my dream—
In the backyard,
I picked you up and held your hand.

I can’t remember exactly
But at some time,
All the family hovered
A few feet off the ground.
We tried to fly,
But we could only make it to the top of the apple tree.

I wish I could protect you—
Like I did in my sleep—
With your soft skull of cartilage
Not yet solidified.
The experiences that will shake you,
Not yet set in,
Like some mental clay
That spent the next ten years
Baking in the hot sun.