FredPeyer

Little Girl

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