A five-year-old painted with her crayon on the pink wall
Drawing a piece of her innocence in a lost language
“Pretty” she thinks to herself in her sunrise mind
The only true word to ride over the horizon
Oh, such a nature! Such grace! With this child
Her older self whispers:


“What is that?” The dark-faced thirteen-year-old washes her walls
Thus upon finding such a bright blue stain
And as directed by her mother’s trembling mind
Scrubs clean the pink wall of what was once her sunrise nursery
But after
Her thoughts distant enough from her mother
She thinks for a minute
In her own primitive language:
“Pretty”
Pretty enough to line her own walls as a fresco
In front of her own dark eyes
The only thing left that counts as pretty
And will always remain the same “pretty” sun wall
Where the child lingers before breakfast.