A touch of poetry

I’m six years old.

I spin around

and around

under a light fixture,

looking

at how the glass

makes  the light dance.

An adult says,

“Get out of the way.”

I don’t have words to ask

why they haven’t taken a moment

to look where I’m looking.

*

I’m thirteen years old.

I’ll tell anyone

even if they aren’t listening

all about

Scorpio and Orion

Perseus

The Pleiades

and every star I have a name for.

All the stories

that shape the world

because

they shape how we perceive it.

Is anyone listening?

I can’t tell.

*

I’m nineteen years old.

My little brother’s convertible

yanks itself down the highway

top down.

I’m in the back seat.

Warm summer air

pushes

on my face and arms

tugs at my hair.

I’m happier and calmer than I’ve ever been.

I’m still smiling

after the ride’s done

for a while.

*

Is there a point

to the tale?

Does there need to be?

This is what I remember.

This is what made me

me.

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2 thoughts on “A touch of poetry

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