There was a little girl
who loved the stars and the velvet skies
And walked with her father under towering trees
Where the manthis swung
Lithe and black, from branch to branch

She traipsed down mountain paths
Collecting ferns, picking berries
A rare raspberry but wild fruit often
With the shallow rivulets tickling her toes

Her father would bend down and tick off an attai
the slimy parasite that dared climb her shoes

Her father, in his hunter boots and woolen stockings
His congol that sat on a well set head
And his shotgun in hand
That she sometimes held with pride


A child lives inside each one of us
Tucked away under layers of decades
She lies there with a smug smile, safely hidden
Take care not to smother her
Completely