Little Girl

A girl who is little.
A girl who is little.

She stood no higher than my knee

And no closer than the opposite side

Of the dismal street that we both

Happened to be walking upon.

I could hear her laughing behind

Where my trail had been blazed,

Clumsy, hurried steps quickly

Approached my periphery.

I turned and saw her standing

With two of her friends,

All about the same size and shape

Except she stood a few yards in front.

She smiled and spoke to me,

Blue ice cream in hand,

The same kind I ate last night:

Distinct and sweet, a little bitter.

Her shirt was covered in dirt,

Her pants well worn and sturdy

With no tears or need for repair,

Hair pulled back into a little bun.

She asked for my name, and I hers,

And we talked about simple things,

When I found out that she was

As old as there are colors in the rainbow.

She giggled when things were funny,

And straightened her face

When she needed to think about

What exactly was said and how to reply.

The well from which we drew our words

Became dry, or at least, our ropes

Not long enough to reach its waters,

So I descended towards my gate.

There she stood, and quickly she left,

Back to wherever she came,

Not to be seen again in a town so small

It dwarfs you with its largeness.

Composed 07/22/2012

Author’s Note: I met a little girl one day. I’m always amazed at how small some of these children are for their age. I cannot say if it is because they are not eating well or because their parents are small people as well. Sometimes they want to talk to me, but most of the time they simply stare.

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