In my pink twirly dress with blue flowers,
I danced and flipped across the grass,
Dodging crimpers that bite,
While peepers sang in the hush of dusk.

I flew on my rusty swing

Grass. Creek. Trees. Sky.

As my gods gardened,
Hands in the soil,
Listening for roots.

Mint lingered in my mouth,
From drinking the spring water
Straight from the ground up the road—

I bent low, stole a sip,
The earth giving something
Only I seemed to know how to take
A secret just for me.

The wind appeared so tender
it stooped time
I felt peace.
Safety.
Seen.

As I tiptoed across Fords Book
Teetering on the stones
Frolicking in the forest
Eager for adventure

He sits on his sad perch
Crying tears
Made with selfish fears
While I flounder,
Drowning in an invisible sea—
Reacting to something others can’t see.

Framed as excessive,
Then ignored,
Dismissed—
While they root for the show,
The cause,
The catalyst

Instead of truth.
Scars.
And loneliness.

I hold the torch—
Too feral to be seen
As they choose
To stumble
Back into oblivion.