The sister of a cohort of my son
Was on her trampoline this afternoon.
She landed oddly. Then I saw the fun
Drain out of her, and she got off as soon
As possible, her ankle likely sprained.
I asked her what was wrong. She said, "I'm hot."
The aspect of her face a little strained,
I asked, "is that foot hurt?" She said, "It's not."
She's eight. She picks and chooses whom to tell
What bothers her. I think she chooses well.
She's pretty easy, ladling out her joy.
But pain is clearly no one else's toy.
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She's eight. She picks and chooses whom to tell
What bothers her. I think she chooses well.
She's pretty easy, ladling out her joy.
But pain is clearly no one else's toy.
When my daughter was little she broke her arm on a trampoline.
Those last two lines break my heart.
Renatta, I would pass along your comment, but this blog is a secret to family and friends.
anna1, same as to Renatta. I'll pass them along in spirit though.
Pilgrim, thank you. I think I wrote because she wouldn't let me do anything.
Kit, why thank you. That line had several versions, before I settled on that. I'm glad it struck a chord.
ron, yes, some days are just days -- especially if you're not in the immediate family. Her dad is expert in sprains and breaks, and she knew what she needed.
c&v, I love that word "distilled". I shared the poem with her mom, and she used the same word.
trilogy, I'm very flattered that you think I do it well. I stop to reread mine, and then I read Millay. Millay wins. But I'll take your vote, and a cup of coffee?
vanessa, you are very kind. It was instructive to arrive at the last two lines -- it suddenly made the adult in the eight-year-old visible to me.
ladyslipper, thanks. Yes, that was the striking part: her sense of privacy. I gained a lot of respect for this child, after this small incident.
I hope everyone is having as lovely a weekend as I am. Gotta write my poem and get to bed -- soccer and baseball games early tomorrow morning.