Notes in the margin
She never really liked dolls,
or play learning to cook;
Instead, like some distant child
of the gods, she dreamed long hours
away in the garden, preferring
always the poetry of flowers.
Sometimes, as day slipped into night
I would catch her staring intently at the moon.
"I'm working out how far away it is,"
she would tell me, already, at eight,
wise beyond E equals MC squared,
"I want to go there one day."
Later, she got her wish,
slipping away beneath the curve
of my known world; her goodbye
insubstantial as the morning mist;
her child's eyes lit faintly by a glow
more distant than the measurable stars.
It was a year, (actually a little more),
when the very fabric of time stretched
and like a flower denied water I sought solace,
though from what I was never sure;
especially when the moon smiled down
as if knowing something I didn't
Eventually, she came back, her knowledge
honed even further beyond mine,
and her notes in the margin re-assuring me
that she never really liked dolls or play
learning to cook; and that she would
always prefer the poetry of flowers.
For my daughter Rebecca, who is still dreaming of those great escapes.
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