Ode to age

June 4, 2012
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A little girl can be so free.
The wind in her hair
And a song on her lips
Nothing more required to make her squeal with joy.
A somersault in the sand
And the grains join the wind
Tangled together by the silky roughness of her locks.
She paints the colors of her feelings
Red can be calming
And blue can be mad
A bunny is orange love
And no one cares.
The song returns to her lips
Off tune
Out of key
But the honeyed music slides down the ears
Of everyone around her
Her too big red shoes
Once shiny and new.
Until her feet played with them
And the white laces grow gray with age.
Mud packs up his bags and moves
To the edge of her party dress.
She wears that dress to the everywhere
Because it is all a party
So why not look nice?
The comfort of a hug is all the tears need
To stay in her eyes.
She isn't blamed for her age.
Nay, she is rewarded for her milky skin and curious eyes
And the dirt between her toes and the apple sause on her cheek.

I am tired of being shunned

For not being a kid.

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