the first thing
that I noticed
was the child's beauty.

then again
I realised how
you can't judge a book
by its binding.

my fingers
laced behind my head,
while the  back of my mind
rest in the palm of my hands.

the linking of
those boney fingers,
a sign
of my threadbare body,
barely old,   barely able.

there she was,
waving her habitual bliss
like a carrot
on the end of a stick.

while a silent psalm
surrounds a starry angel's glow.