Poetry

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She rushes down the stairs to the living room.
It is Saturday…her day of the week.
A flick of her fingers and colorful adventures
Of heroes and villains flash before her
In animated glory.
Happy endings and sunshine will rule her day;
Candy and popsicles will be her diet.

Perhaps a run through the park to marvel
At the man with balloons filled with magic air.
She promises one day to free them;
Perhaps to frolic with the sparrows
Or soar with the eagles.

It seems to her the flowers grow brighter with the day;
As if they were enjoying it as much as she was.
She invites the swans to run with her;
But this hour of the day has found them
Much too lazy to indulge in such an excursion.

The bells ring load the noonday hour
And the pigeons take flight;
As if it were their cue to free themselves
From the invisible bonds that tied them to earth.
She wishes she could fly with them;
Perhaps some other noon…some other day.

Along narrow paths and across oak tree bridges
The afternoon follows her
As she hums joyfully in her independence;
But she is not alone.

Her feet slow and then stop
At a cave of dead brush and broken pine boughs.
This is her secret place that only she may know;
An impenetrable fortress where caterpillars and ladybugs
Stand guard awaiting her instructions.

She lies there listening to the silence
And the sweetness of the feathered voices
Who acknowledge her presence
As they pass beyond her grasp
But within reach of her dreams.

The shadow of a maple tree near-by
Touches her and silently reminds
That the day is quickly waning.
Quickly she races home to beat
The night dragons to her door.

Her magic day is over;
Tomorrow is Sunday and Grandma’s.
She slowly drifts off to a dream-filled sleep
As the shadow that has followed her all day
Slowly bends to plant a gentle feathered kiss
Upon her brow as He whispers,
“Good-night little explorer; see you tomorrow.”
And then He’s gone.

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