The Write Kind
Seldom get it wrong.
Monday, January 10, 2011
This little girl and I, we have spent many laughs together, to the envy of most others. I have been strung to her lonely finger for longer than I care to remember.
We have bounced, danced and squeaked at each other, I more than her. I have loved her and she, me, her sky coloured pink in my wake only.
I stand suspended in the air by that little finger she has tied to the ends of me.
This season of air is called spring. How her hand holds my string, feels like warmth in winter.
As we face light, I dance effortlessly. Her grip loosens. She is getting ideas.
As I let her go ... I rise.
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