A Child Senses
I remember when I knew I was no longer a child,
the day I could no longer wonder without
reminders that the world only values purpose.
I watch my young daughter still sensing without
the browns and yellows of a woman’s perspective.
She tells me of the taste of the sea, that raindrops
on the car window are bright stars. She tells me
all about the slow sloths and that they know
how taking time is fine because they can hear
the oranges when they dream at night. My daughter
knows that the zoo is a cage.
Tomorrow I will tell her that a sour cherry tree,
planted in the polluted soil of expectation cannot grow.
I remember when I knew I was no longer a child,
the day I could no longer wonder without
reminders that the world only values purpose.
I watch my young daughter still sensing without
the browns and yellows of a woman’s perspective.
She tells me of the taste of the sea, that raindrops
on the car window are bright stars. She tells me
all about the slow sloths and that they know
how taking time is fine because they can hear
the oranges when they dream at night. My daughter
knows that the zoo is a cage.
Tomorrow I will tell her that a sour cherry tree,
planted in the polluted soil of expectation cannot grow.
Natalie Marino is a writer, mother, and physician. She graduated with a BA in American Literature from UCLA. She has been or soon will be published in Haikuniverse and Royal Rose Magazine. She lives in Thousand Oaks, California with her husband and their two daughters.