The Art of Disappearing

Her small hands are quick whispers,  

a sly language beneath the oak.  

Green secrets tumble and vanish,  

a silent deal sealed with fur.  

The dog's tail wags agreement,  

an accomplice in every bite.  

She grins wide, cheeks puffed full,  

swearing oaths of empty plates.  

That broccoli never belonged here,  

too stiff, too green, too loud.  

Not for her tender, growing mouth,  

not for any child, she declares.  

And I? I am the silent witness,  

partly amused, partly in awe.  

At five years old, a born magician,  

conjuring absence in every meal.