Kiddo

Kiddo has recently decided she wants to be a writer.  With her HUGE imagination and her unique way of looking at things (also her express desire to be a hermit in later days) I think it would be a great occupation for her.  


Her English class has started a segment on poetry and that has really piqued her interest.  She put a few lines down and I thought i'd share them ...

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The Lake I See

The lake I see shines like gold in the sunlight

The lake I see shines with the pure color of silver in the moon light

But what is the lake’s true color?  Silver or gold?  Which is the lakes color that sinks into the depths of the water? 

Or is it that both colors are the true colors?  Maybe the lake shimmers and shines with both colors pure.

The lake I see changes colors every day and night.  Which is true, we will never know.  I will watch the lake; I will see shine and shimmer until it tells itself.

What is its true color, the gold or the silver?  The one that should always move with the waves?

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Time flows like a river

Time flows like a river. It has an upstream, a downstream, and a standstill.

No one should try to disrupt this river for it will have dire consequences upstream

Those downstream affect those upstream greatly. No one should ever break away from the stream’s current and flow upstream or downstream from where they are

Those who separate from the current no longer exist anymore, it is unnatural

I wish to flow peacefully and quietly down the river and never look back at those whom I left downstream

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What do the trees whisper

What do the trees whisper when the only thing binding them is their roots deep in the flowering earth

I wish to know what stories trees would tell, if only I understood the wind that fuels their stories

Do they talk of battles of the past?  Or do they sing praises to the ones who planted them?

Do they wonder about the bird and what it feels like to fly, and that’s why they stretch their arms?

Do saplings try to stay small to admire how far away the blue sky is?

I wish to understand the stories of trees, if only I spoke their tongue.

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What happens beneath the waves

What happens beneath the waves in the lake that glistens in the sun?

What all lurks with no rules under the shore?

What are the stories of the stones and the fish that float unbidden?

What types of stories do the waves speak in return?

Do they speak of centuries past living close and far from humanity?

Or do they just explore the never ending cycle of life that floats through the warm water?

Do fish fear or taunt us beneath the waves?

Laughing because we do not see the way they see, or fear us because we eat them?

What all happens under the shore we see?