A/N: I will most likely read this poem again in a couple of weeks and cringe. If you guys cringe as well, I suppose it’s as good as reaction as any 😉
And furthermore; Happy Birthday, Mom!
The world is still new and I stare with eyes from The Tinderbox.
Marvelling over snow crushing beneath me, sun warming above me.
And that little sound the microwave makes, when the minutes are out.
And over the dog; greeting me with a cold, wet snout and a wetter tongue.
Then I scare, and run to Mother, though I don’t really know
That she is my Mother, or even that there is a her and I.
We’re one, at this age, and we lift me from the ground and we smile.
I listen to our heartbeat, and I feel safe and demand to be let loose.
So I explore again, and return again, a perfected never-ending dance.
Demanding comfort and freedom with just a few heartbeats between.
And my Mother’s sighs and laughter are the music, we are dancing to.
Look mother! I want to scream at the sight of a butterfly, and she does.
I’m young, so very young, and the world is still a playground built merely for me.
A playground, which every danger can be magicked away with a voice and a touch.