We encountered a white-tiled wall whose
            purity lingered behind earthly browns,
           salmon, grass, lavender acrylic paint. And this frozen scene chilled like hot breath on winter
            glass, soil-mixed dividing stories of young, smiley-touched
            girls whose hair was flaxen hills in
            the country and whose
            eyes were opalescent azures whose opalescence
            was truly the only sign of thought beyond a
            glassy grin.

Porcelain doll made of giggles and bubbles.

She fanned her fingers in a glorious sky and leaf peacock-feathered exuberance and pawed at the dry, gritty scene of a sailboat floundering towards a sunset.

She sees this world feelingly – one touch, two touch
Her smile is prayer-folded hands extending across her own little world
A prayer for this textured caricature of a little girl,
            a happy puppet stuck until dark,
            like the form the woman she’ll soon become
            with her child-like fingers spidering across the stories she hopes to [but never will] tell.

Her dusty hands against the comforting tinge of a watermelon’s epicenter.
            So pink, so raw, so vulnerable with the valor of another brush’s turn.