She likes to sit on the park bench
The blue wooden one, right below the willow
Where gentle gusts of wind slightly brush
The low hanging branches against
Her ash-blond straight combed hair
Touches of her muse she calls it
Open notebook on her knees
Chewed up pencil between her lips
Writing her poems in solitude
“What are you doing?”
A small timid voice
Big innocent eyes full of
Wonder and trust
She looks at the little girl
“I am writing a poem.”
“What’s a poem?”
“It’s voices you hear in your head
You write down on paper
Using beautiful words”
“I hear voices in my head too
Do you think when I am older
I can write them down like you?”
“Yes, you can, and they will be beautiful
As beautiful as you are”
A big open smile, the kind that
Will stay with you the whole day
She begins to write a poem
A poem about a little girl