One block past the redbud, she soars,
her laughter rippling like sunlight—
a sound that refuses to keep still.
Your arms are rivers carrying her weight,
the rhythm of up and down pulling
at gravity's old, tired song.
Her mother's glance is both caution
and gratitude tangled in a sigh,
but you—
you can’t stop, not yet,
not with this wild symphony unfolding.
You sweat like summer rain,
legs aching mile-long promises
as the next tree comes into view.
Again, she says, again, she shines—
her joy relentless, her faith in flight
a thing that knots itself around your lungs,
and suddenly, you believe in the sky, too.
By the persimmon, her hand finds yours,
tiny and sticky with the residue of trust.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: May 21st, 2026 03:52
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
Offline)
Comments3
From the title, I was waiting for the Mom to slap the child. (past memories I guess) anyway, love the metaphors,. It seems as they rolled together to elegantly.
Thank you for the read.
Thank you for sharing your feedback
much enjoyed
Thank You Norman
most welcome
This is a lovely write and I particularly love the last line that seems so endearing
Thank You Soren
You are most welcome Gray
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