Before you are born,
I paint your half smile.
I see a schoolboy tie;
your sensitive hands touch
an open book.
Your voice floats high
above playground noise,
the sound of scissors.
I hover restless, long,
until your hair is no longer the color
of pencil shavings,
until you speak the low
calm of a red rose.
tk/ September 2013
Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for beautifully reading this poem.
