Wednesday, September 28, 2011

When I was six years old
I bet my mother couldn't I fly?
And why not grow
wings, feathers, and fly
with so much sky
all around.
And when I was seven, well child?
Why so low?
And why not be low
with so much ground
so low and earth so cold
between toes.
I could only grow
wings so fast you know.
And when I was nine, mother braids
my hair.
Hold still for a second,
you're not going anywhere?
I couldn't care about hair
when it was everywhere
So was I, so fair,
going anywhere.
And when I was twelve,
oh my
how I wished I could fly
and again and again
I was
I was
I was
When I was
to fly
And why not fly with so much sky?