A Lamentation

 I will never know

What passes through her mind as she scoops

Dripping wet sand and bunches of kelp

And hurls them toward the blackening ocean.


Or know her inner thoughts as she sings

Her invented tunes quietly under her breath,

And picks flowers, indelicately,

Frantic to gather as many as she can fit

In her small clenched hand. 


There are worlds she creates

Which I will never see, or even know

Existed in her fantastical young mind.

And every day she is farther from me.


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