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.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: November 7th, 2025 12:09
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 27
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Thomas W Case
Offline)
Comments2
Gray I have had young children and can identify this is so cute it deserves a fave just for how child like this is. It is lovely
Thanks Soren that's exactly what I was going for
You are most welcome Gray
Powerful work, my friend.
Thank you brother I always appreciate your feedback
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