Waterwings
By: Nicole Busch
This particular morning she wakes up with
A big smile on her face,
Like the look you get when you get a good grade on a test,
For it is the day of her waterwings.
She is small, around five,
Yet she has all the courage of fifteen.
She is happy at the table,
One arm engulfed in pink, one in purple.
Like a mismatched storybook atop her bookshelf,
She was having trouble deciding.
A crunch of toast brings a warm look on her face,
She starts to sing and suddenly her dishes disappear.
A crayon held with high prestige,
She draws a crown upon her little head.
The highly illegible signature, scribbled in the corner,
She calls for her mom to come and view,
A big smile on her face, she presents
Her masterpiece, her artwork, her drawing.
Waterwings, she calls them.
But what are they?
The floats I strap to her arms,
As a form of protection?
I wear a cloak of concern,
Strong like armor, supple like a cape.
I watch the high-pitched squeals,
The prancing and kicking,
The ripples her small body makes,
The love for her waterwings.
No comments:
Post a Comment