You wore the whimsy of light
in strawberry hair, in summer tanned
hands, and eyes as blue as a July sky.
You were a song
that sparkled the wind.
Unfettered, you flew so quickly
we couldn’t keep up. Maybe grownups
invent rules to maintain control. If
that was true, it was not
a conscious thing…
More like self-preservation, or maybe
just holding on. I don’t remember
when it was you went from sagging socks
to nylons, or when you quit naming frogs
in the garden
And sneaking them into your room.
But here you are all grown up, frowning
over calculus, balancing equations
that I don’t understand; the strawberry
hair coifed neatly,
The summer tanned hands manacled
by a perfect manicure
and the blue eyes shadowed
you will not share.