Notes in the margin

She never really liked dolls,

or play learning to cook;

Instead, like some distant child

of the gods, she dreamed long hours

away in the garden, preferring 

always the poetry of flowers.

Sometimes, as day slipped into night,

I would stand aside, watch in silence
as she stared intently at the moon. 

"I'm working out how far away it is," 

she would tell me, already, at seven, 

wise beyond E equals MC squared,

"I want to go there one day,
write its story."

Later, she got her wish,

slipping away beneath the curve

of my known world; her goodbye

insubstantial as the morning mist;

her child's eyes lit faintly by a glow

more distant than the measurable stars.

It was a year, (actually a little more),

when the very fabric of time stretched

and like a flower denied water I sought solace,

though from what I was never sure; 

especially when the moon smiled down 

as if knowing something I didn't

Eventually, she came back, her knowledge

honed even further beyond mine,

her notes in the margin re-assuring me

that she never really liked dolls or play

learning to cook; and that she would

always prefer the poetry of flowers.

Reviews

[Tom]

A quaint and imaginatively penned poem, depicting the delights of childhood enigma and their own personal uniqueness !

Wonderfully stimulating and embracing, well scribed indeed Beccy !

[Beccy]

Thank you so much for your very kind reviews and comments. Beccy.

[Ed Hart]

oh mystic girl, her and you