.

The front yard of her home,
no white picket fence
just a cement curb separates
where she sat with the Crayolas,
she received last year when she turned seven,
63 to be exact
(the umber one lost under her bed months ago)

A hot sunny day,
colored wax puddles blend
with butterflies floating
and tiger lilies swaying like an orange banner
at the VFW parade

The ice cream truck sings in bells,
displaying pink cones
and rainbow push-ups,
but she is not in the giggling line,
dollars stretched for treats

The summer breeze flips the pages
of the mother goose coloring book
Images blur together as fairy tales
fly by, waving farewell
while her impression in the soft green grass
slowly disappears

Red eyes droop on sagging skin
her worried mother can’t breathe,
calling her name in coarse tones,
repeating, hoping, repeating
as another slate gray day passes
in her shattered world
of melted crayons
and lost innocence