Hands above your head,
you tipped forward—
again and again. Each time,
your palms landed safely
on the trusted ground.
The damp grass lingered
on your clothes and in your hair.
I hated to wash it out,
this gritty bouquet,
a love letter from the earth
to six-year-old you.
And I watched
from the other side
of the sliding glass door.
Sometimes, I’d see
my own reflection,
if I turned just so.
But mostly you.
Your limbs as fragile and bold
as butterfly wings.
Bound to go just as far.
Your toes,
pointed in front of you
like an arrow.
