Crossing the road
When I was eight years old,
I was sure that cars would stop
At the little girl in red.

From the other side,
The stretch seems like forever;
Running fast from something,
Or someone I wasn't sure of.

Mom would scold,
Friends would shout cold;
Warm gustling winds,
Passing swiftly was home.

Crossing the road,
Now I'm twice as old,
I'm sure the car didn't miss me,
Because I missed it instead.