Little Bird

Pausing to look over her white sheet of paper

She tilts her head ever so subtly

Ever quietly she asks me to help her make a bird

Eyeing the paint brush in her little hand

Instinctually my hand raises, covering hers

We, together, dip the brush in paint

Then onward toward the paper

To make a thing that flies-

How will she ever know?

How could she ever understand?

Of all the hers that ever were…

She, and me, alone, together, in the kitchen

Like a love done right.

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