Speak, Little one. Before it's too late.
Before you learn too much, and decide not to say what you're really thinking.
Before you live in fear of what others will think of the words you say.
Speak, Little one. Paint us pictures of your young, hapless mind.
Influenced only by apple sauce, Scooby-Doo, the color blue.
You carry with you only whats left of your first blanket.
Sometimes the questions of the Unknown, as "Why" "What" and "How" appear more often than not.
You cling to its cotton, frayed edges. Not knowing how long it will be before it's forgotten.
Like your words, the little things, they come and go.
Be swift, Little one. Return to your fort between the living room book case and the television.
Constructed eloquently of blankets, pillows, and my leather jacket, it is safe.
Speak, Little one, for soon you will outgrow your fort, and become part of a world that's not
Continue to speak, little one, as your words will grow in confidence and importance
as you grow so abruptly and follow no plotted coordinates.
And eat, little one, and clear all of your plate,
So you can get back to speaking, before its too late.