making grimy mud pies in the dirt
shaping the dark, cool muck
into round compact disks
scoring the top into wedges
with a bent twig
decorating the pies with flowers
totally engrossed in the task
only the breeze as a playmate
until a caterpillar called her name
breaking her reverie
and sending her screaming
across the lawn
looking for her mother
who laughed until tears streamed
down her cheeks
and the young girl kicked her pies
breaking them in pieces
so they could return to the dirt
from which they came.
2 comments:
she'll prefer solitude to company when she's grown, I would think.
you've captured a kind of collision of child and adult realities. tragic and beautiful.
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