Long Autumn Poems. These are the most popular long Autumn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Autumn poems by poem length and keyword.
See also: Famous Long Poems
Again the alarm is set.
Strawberries, date squares…Yum, Yum.
The alarm rings again. The tea party is over.
She returns to her perch where her wings are immediately clipped by the Bald Eagle who informs her that a bird doesn’t chirp when her poem is being critiqued, that a bird just listens.
“I didn’t know this was a critiquing session,” she chirps.
I thought it was an afternoon of poetry reading.
“Bring two poems”, is all that the Raven requested.
God! What does she know about critiquing? Everything she knows about poetry, she has learned from a website. She still hasn’t really grasped the meaning of Iambic Tetrameter.
The scar beneath her ring, feels as if it might explode as what remains of her Revlon mask begins to melt under the heat of her humiliation.
God! Please don’t let them see I am a fraud, she prays, as she desperately tries in vain to regain their acceptance, as if there was any in the first place; her being such a sparrow.
The Bald Eagle twitters a poem about her battle with cancer, which brings her to tears. Again, she dares to dream she can be one of this flock as she too is a cancer survivor. It is decided the Bald Eagle’s poem needs punctuation.
Again, still daring to dream of acceptance, she chirps that most of her poetry is also written with very little or no punctuation.
“Well,” the Raven caws, “your poem in comparison is child’s play,” and with those words, breaks the strings of her ‘Violin’.
As the afternoon wears on, the Crow caws for her to be quiet as she can’t hear. Visions of Vultures begin to fly in her head.
Later the old Crow caws that the bird she is addressing as a Blue Bird is not a Bluebird and that the only Bluebird is the Raven’s wife and that the bird she is addressing is a Turkey.
Even, while responding to something the Turkey has chirped to her, the Turkey gobbles for her to be quiet because the Crow is cawing.
The scar beneath her ring now feels like it is splitting apart. Again, all she can see is red. The Vultures are circling now.
Her second poem, ’The Rise and fall of An Empire, is received with little pecking, other than ‘Well it’s poetic.’
The Raven caws, “If he were to be cruel, he would say it contains a cliché,” (a cardinal sin in poetry) as he caws an excerpt from her poem (as the sea grasses sing).
The Turkey, demurely and with a gobble of sarcasm, inquires if everything she writes is in rhyme, as she casts a disdainful glance at her book of poetry.
At 4 p.m., when the final alarm has gone off, the Turkey announces that the next meeting will be at her Nest.
The Raven caws, “The sparrow doesn’t know where you live.”
The Turkey then asks her for her email address, but doesn’t write it down and gobbles she will email her, her address before the next meeting.
“Don’t hold your breath,” cackles the Sparrow’s little voice inside.
The Turkey then drops a book on the coffee table.
Still foolishly seeking acceptance, the Sparrow chirps, “Is that your book of poetry?”
“No, it is ‘Descant’, and I have a poem published in this edition,” she gobbles.
“Yes!” the Crane pipes up. “It’s the only book that REALLY matters, the BOOK that all birds want to be published in,” ruffling her feathers with her innuendo. What? The pitiful Sparrow doesn’t even know what Descant is, she with her self-published book of poetry.
Then the flock gathers together, chirping amongst themselves, and begin to fly away without a single chirp to her, like “Nice to have met you.” “Hope you will come to our next meeting.”
No! They simply leave her there with her wings clipped and her veil removed, having been incinerated by their hot air.
They leave her there with her Revlon mask melting like candle wax, sliding down her face, all their black barbs having finally penetrated her thin skin, exposing her for who she really is.
Not an intellect, not a fraud, just a Sparrow, now in the autumn of her life; a Sparrow who at the age of 16 dared to dream beautiful dreams while living in a nightmare.
A Sparrow, who had many years ago seen an old broken violin in a junk shop and was so moved by its haunting beauty she was inspired to write a poem.
A Sparrow, who as a chick, with her brother, on a summer day, built an Empire made of sand, in a land where sea grasses sang—A Sparrow who knew why violins and willows weep.
A Sparrow who knew she would never be one of them.
Yet she was grateful!
Grateful she had survived the Ides of March, and on this day was left wondering how something so ugly could have grown from something as beautiful as poetry.
Walking in the dawn,
in the forest loud with sound;
Hear the birds sing in the trees!
Listen to the wind,
see the stream flowing free;
Touch a leaf so green, dew wet!
Do you hear it now,
the sound of nature, the song;
A song so sweet, magical
Written April 23, 2009
Colourful leaves in piles,
luminous colours for miles and miles.
Burgundy, orange hovering,
the trees slowly relinquishing, surrendering.
A cool breeze makes them dance,
some quiet and calm, some leap and prance.
The Autumn sky so changing,
clouds moving, billowing, shifting, expanding.
And in one blustering wind,
piles empty where once colourful leaves had been.
Sun touches the leaves of a tree,
Like a stained glass window scene, to see.
Written October 15, 2008
deep clear sparkling snow
diamond like snowflakes falling
horse swiftly gliding
Written October 28, 2008
my little garden
plant unfurl your leaf
send your root deep deep deep
tis spring tis spring now
Written April 23, 2009
Butterfly hair clip
Deep purple antique necklace
Doll, of my childhood
Pearls, old and yellowed with time
Pink glass vase with wilted roses
Mom's favourite earrings
Scented candle, burning
Written November 5, 2008
On Bent Knees
Prayer books waiting at the door,
polished pews and stone cold floors.
Specks of dust glitter in the light,
half forgotten dreams still burn bright.
Stained glass windows cast a glow,
on bent knees this day my prayers flow.
Written February 2, 2009
Exploring the city on a rainy afternoon,
I happened upon, Ye Olde Book Store;
Opening the door, chimes sang out,
The store dusty, small and amazing.
To the ceiling books and rows of books,
The shop keeper, an elderly man, nods;
I walk quietly, I feel that I am in church,
Alone, I am in this place of books.
So many to touch, but one beckons me,
Taking it in my hands, I brush off the dust;
Opening the book, it seems to me so interesting,
I purchase it of course for a small price.
Finding a café close by, I settle in to read,
The words on the cover seem to be engraved;
A collection of poetry by the great poets of all time,
Page after page, tattered, yellowed with age.
Written April 23, 2009
Standing on a sea cliff with salt on my lips,
Holding out my hands to the heavens above;
Moving past me, a roaring wind, blows my raven hair,
Breathing in the sweetness, it whispers my name,
Tangled with the crashing waves, the birds soaring, the clouds rolling.
Written March 13, 2009
O, The Glistening Tears
You come in the light of day,
Through the ornate cemetery gates you come;
Down the lonely long road,
Past the headstones, row on row on row.
O, the glistening tears.
With a broken weeping heat,
You come, for us your family buried here;
What a cruel destiny and cruel fate,
Such love that even death cannot destroy.
O, the glistening tears.
And when the seasons change,
And fall winds blow over us resting here;
And when winter frost is in the air,
And we lay beneath the pure white snow,
O, the glistening tears.
And when spring comes and flowers grow,
You come in the light of day, you come, you come;
For us your family buried here,
Souls connected by bonds that even death cannot end.
Written February 8, 2009
The Memory Of You
Mom, today I saw a girl with her Mom
They were so happy laughing and talking
Together, mother and daughter, friends
I wondered if the girl realized
My heart was filled with envy and pain
I have so many things to tell you
Happy things, sad things, just things
Things only a mother would understand
Tears came to my eyes as I watched
God must have needed a special angel
To separate the puzzle that was you and me
The pieces that fit so well together
Mom, our love is an endless river
It will go on and on and on and never end
God took you from me, it was your destiny
I know nothing could keep you here
Our parting words, I love you so much
Your answer and I love you my daughter
God took you in the dawn but he left me a gift
A precious gift, the memory of you
Written February 8, 2009
_ _ _ _While walking one day in crisp autumn air,
On the edge of the sidewalk, I saw it so clearly_ _ _ _
a worn leather wallet....
(at least, I had thought it)
But on C L O S E R inspection, it took no detection,
.....to see my mistake, in a quick double take
It was a lone, shabby leaf,............ which I gladly retrieved
It made my heart grieve................how does time turn the leaves
verdant green, into brown.............which we can't turn around....?
Time so lost in a flash...................is it too much to ask, that the seasons slow down,
or the reasons are sound?
There was amber beneath............................... this worn crackling leaf
with some gold clinging too, ............................as if given clue
that the fleeting days dwindle,..........................like the flame of a candle
I saw smoke, nearby, r
from leaves left for burning,.. and no one was stirring, which seems quite surprising
o u @@ * *
This m n d left to smolder, on a day growing colder* *
In the palm of my hand, it f" l "u "t" t" e "r "e" d to please me,
then it s" h" u "t" t"e" r "e "d in breezes, with tangible FEAR!
Above in the trees, birds were singing in chorus...
While the branches were swinging.....in sync with the verses
"Blossom to blossom.. Green leaves are sprouting",
"Leaves turn to rust....Then to ash in one flash"
"Ashes to ashes...'Till dust turns to dust"...
. . .
My poor fragile keepsake, "q"u"a"k"e"d" in the wake of s-h-a-t-t-e-r-i-n-g sadness :)
into a million
p i e
and t-h-r-o-u-g-h my fingers,
Submitted for "Creative Layout" contest:
Sponsored by Broken Wings
The blind man waited,
at the intersection, for someone
to help him cross the busy boulevard...
and he was accustomed to live in twilight,
fumbling for a hand on his right;
and he finally found mine!
Judge humanly...not pettily,
you could be in that situation
and feel abandoned and helpless,
unless somebody extends compassion
and lends that hand in time of need;
only human love can render a good deed!
The orphan girl recognizes a greed so mundane,
her body has grown, so has her world's view;
that person who abandoned her at the orphanage
when icy rain pelted against the foggy windows,
was her own mother that refused to knock on the front door!
She still feels unwanted, unloved and rejected by who,
for some shameful reason, dropped her off and was gone
into the dreary autumn's night to forget her despair!
Judge the pain...not the circumstance
that impels a misguided heart to err;
beneath an appearance of denial,
there's a certain humanity we can't conceive,
and what prompts us to act in unreasonable and strange ways,
is still not quite understood by all;
all we can perceive is the guilt we can't bear,
and the resentful restlessness which shortens this very existence!
The elderly woman, sitting in an old wheel-chair,
waits at the traffic light as the whisking wind
brushes her frizzy and gray hair;
the sunken-cheeked lady is the regular beggar,
whose life has never been mellow,
but full of tragedy and sorrow!
Her frail voice is not insincere, but thankful and kind...
when I hand her a dollar out of my car's window!
Judge fairly... that could be you standing there,
or someone you love; fate can be changed if we dare...
we assert truths without clarity and condemn unjustly!
Let's take the mendicant's place, at the same corner, and beg all day;
wouldn't we be humiliated, be scorned or even be ignored
by the glances of passerby that regard us not as their friend?
The run-away teenager with lots of make-up,
looks like a madam out of a brothel,
who tries to hide her identical age by smiling at strangers...
and her trade is that of an inexperienced gal,
unprotected and exposed to many dangers;
and it might cost her life...that's already a living hell!
Judge not too harshly...when facts aren't known,
and the only assumption rests with our pity;
along the side of the street there are many eyes that weep,
eager to return home, to a home that was so warm and cozy!
And the lucky ones will make until dawn,
others will not open their eyes, but eternally sleep!
THE PLAGUES OF OUR DAY
The blind man with a steel cane stooped and waited
for someone to help him across the busy boulevard;
he felt warm sunlight, and wished his sight back without living in darkness,
then he saw a glimpse of that light when he was touched by my kindness.
The orphan girl wants to escape, but she is afraid to venture in the outside world
still feeling unwanted, unloved and shivering unable to shield herself from the cold.
On many rainy nights, she sits by her barred window recalling her frail mom fleeing
into the Autumn dreary night, and inside she longs for caresses to begin the healing.
Another teenager, hustles in the dangerous streets of night...she barely
can walk on high heels, but she endures pain for gain;
her home was blessed with good parents, but she rebelled and ran away...
she has no choice but sell her body...what will she attain?
Lend a hand to anyone in time of need,
only human love renders a good deed;
How can we help abandoned babies and run-away
and get rid of all the plagues of our day that infest society?
As the man on the roof, took two steps towards the edge, he was unexpectedly stopped by the sound of a bright and familiar voice, down below.
"I thought you were at work dad, watcha doing up there?", asked Daisy with a serious look on her face. He was hoping she wouldn't have to witness this, and was desperately thinking of ways around it, to explain his actions.
"I came home early, honey and well-- things will be a little bit different from now on, sweet pea... please, just go back inside"
She hugged herself tight as the autumn wind attacked her bare arms. It was freezing out here. And although she longed for her cocoa and wool blanket inside, daddy just wasn't making any sense.
"I'm scared... you always said that the roof was dangerous and--"
Her slightly panicked plea was cutoff by yet another familiar voice, though with an unusually angry tone to it, like the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard... but not quite.
"Charles! What on earth are you doing up there?", roared from what only could be Daisy's mother. The man on the ledge, sighed. Two problems arising in the span of a few minutes. There's just no way around this, if I'm gonna do this at all I gotta do it now! He thought to himself.
He took a couple steps back, inhaled a quick breath, and lifted his leg as if it sprint. While gritting his teeth and slamming his eyes closed he leaped off the edge into the blustery cold day. And in mid-air he hugged his legs tightly with his arms, creating an impressive cannonball shape.
A great whoosh sound happened, as the girls immediately raised their arms in defense of the coming splash.
"You just ruined your best suit!", said the woman, as the man lifted his head up from the icy chlorinated water, with a mad grin on his face.
"Well it looks like I won't be needing it anymore."
"You mean, you-- Oh Charles, what are we gonna-- Oh Charles," she incoherently blabbered on.
"It's alright dear, something will come up. There's a whole world of possibilities now," he gestured with his arms at the general area of their front lawn. "I'll do something else, something better even. A detective, an archaeologist, an astronaut--"
"Or maybe an Olympic diver!", shouted Daisy contentedly.
"Anything's possible," he chuckled. And on that note, they left their front lawn, while half a dozen anthills fended against the unexpected flooding. And as they walked through the front door of the house, they were uncertain to keep, they all held hands, and spent the rest of the afternoon playing board games.
Late at night when everyone else was asleep, he walked in his pyjamas and gazed through the window. The pool was mirror-flat, filled with silver moonlight, and autumn leaves were casually floating on its surface.
A good day, Charles thought. Today was a good day.
One fine blustering autumn day an old man puts on his boots pulls up his trousers off he goes,
If anyone wondered where he was going it was to a forest a good long walk it was a fine day,
The old man walked at a leisurely pace stopping every now and again pulling up his trousers,
Looking over fences just to see what the farmer’s men were up to and who was ploughing today.
In his days, the prime of his life, he and his old horse would plough the fields from early morning,
Working through the day stopping for a bottle of cold tea a loaf of bread and a large lump of cheese,
The horse had a nosebag and while they rested, eating, the clapper of the bird boy could be heard,
He would work on until the sun went down on a blue horizon and shadows disappeared with the day.
As he paused he took pleasure at the sight of fat cattle and poultry roaming around the farmhouse,
Duck and geese and turkeys busying themselves beside the big barn doors pecking out the chaff,
And he could hear the flail, or the swipple, knocking the corn, as the bails piled high in the barn,
Happy that all was well he carried on walking, smiling and made his way up to the brow of a hill.
As a young farmer he leaped over stiles and ran in the corn, the land was his workplace and home,
There was no job he could not do or did not enjoy doing, whatever needed doing it had to be done,
His arms were so thick, strong, the farm girls giggled but could not get their hands all the way round,
He used to blush as each girl tried, he was a bit shy, but it made him feel good to be so very strong.
He also stopped at stiles, or a rustic bridge casting its arch over water, fish swam in the shallows
Breathing in deeply through his nose, sampling the fresh autumnal air, a bonfire in the distance,
After looking all around he wished he had brought some tackle to catch some for his late dinner,
Never mind he thought it’s another day tomorrow I will be up here to fish at the crack of the dawn.
In his young days he was not allowed to fish the river, so in the moonless nights he would poach,
Beautiful brown trout as fresh as a berry from a tree eaten with warm bread a feast fit for a king,
It would not be long before he stopped again getting his breath resting for a few short minutes,
As his lungs filled with the purest of pure air he restarted his country walk and relived his life.
He passed by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries hanging from a hedge and took time to pick a few,
And clusters of nuts hanging by the wayside through the copse on his way along a little old lane,
And in all this natural beauty the old man seemed to have enjoyment of a child one more time,
The world moved around but this time backwards he saw the things he used to see as a young boy
In a lovely corner of her garden,
a trellis was curled with rose climbing vines,
and something enchanting, had been designed,
from an ordinary day on a warm afternoon.
Tea would be served, with her large knuckled hands,
to a bouquet of her friends, and some neighbors of mine,
by the most gentile’ lady, I have ever known…
She made it seem like days of old, when decorum was in fashion,
before composure, and poise,.. had become scorned and cold
where propriety still mattered, as precious as gold.
Lilting voices would chatter like the birds on the wing.
Ringing with laughter, across fragrant grass,
Flower frocked ladies, around a few scattered tables.
Linens and laces, under ashes and maples.
Silver coifed hairdos, with apple cheeked faces,
And me? There I'd sip.... quite out of my place...
watching it all, from the cool dappled shade.
There were delightful surprises to meet the eye…
Delicate confections, cucumber sandwiches,
made by her hand, just for the occasion.
Fragrant branches, covering the veranda.…
Rose petal blossoms, painted on china.
The most beautiful tea set, oh, how divine it was!
Envious eyes, covetously pined for it!
She wore a floppy garden hat, a dress of mauve, and there she sat.
Her weathered skin, her cheeks of rouge... a smile to love,...you would have too,...
She had lived a war, and more than one.....iron strong, a generous heart
Knowing eyes, and sparkling wit,
She would hold your hand in hers and smile,... listen well, of that I'm sure
and then would sip and chat awhile, of this and that…
and you would learn of love somehow
I sipped my tea, and watched it all, and never thought of future things. ~
For now I sit here all alone…the chatter gone, the birds have flown.
Where once her charm, her love of life
the grand old ways, have slipped away…gone are those days, she loved so well.
Soon after, in the autumn chill…when word soon spread that she was ill
I was away, and never knew.….I hope, oh Lord, she was not alone ….
And looking back …I think of that….. and how strange the fact….. how odd it is…..
that something owned by someone grand, a china cup, so delicate,
so fragile in the hand,
can last beyond the grave...intact,….
although a dear, enchanting friend, her life would have to end…..
Running fast thru Autumn’s dream, Vincent-bright in village winter’s light
Topaz-treed streets, eaves-filled , singing with saffron and gold,
A Rocky Mountain cold cornflower sky over English hills
Vivid with Vincent-fuzzy ice-finger edges
Photo-album best parts of all seasons rolled into one
As if my life’s heyday was being relived fast
My poetry tries to regrab life with words, to pin it down,
Know it, drain it, before almost losing it - maximum squeeze-out like my friends
Three whose dreams failed but were glad to have them.
I should try to smoke the midnight toke with Coleridge
Kubla Khan’s dope dream-dome of sunny ice like this village
A family in a moving car in a vision once I saw:
Could I revive within me its symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 't would win me, with his combined vision of
But I cannot revive so I must recreate in words
I should try to sing a love song with Eliot, and I run and shout
Let us go then you and I, where dreams spread out beneath the sky
Of intensely cold blue, like a patient etherized upon a table
To expose my memories for surgical scrutiny under glare of operating theatre lamps
As the journey unfolds, the folds of the dream curtain spread out below you,
Please treat me kindly in the darkness
Unasleep, I should try to light the midnight oil with Yeats for
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams,my children, my kids
Grasping for understanding my pen digs into paper, the words dig into the past.
Rain outside - drops leak and Rorschach splats mean anything and everything.
Like Vincent I feel for the words: with clawed fingers I clutch at empty space,
For everything already exists. I think of nothing and the words touch me -
I wake and work in darkness: electric light cut off instead of an ear.
Colors in life exist without words: cannot be captured;
Colors in dreams are where no words can reach: like emotions.
Planting wildflowers in tubs, their beauty deteriorates.
Babbling streams running fast make music which no notes can describe.
Quite plainly some lines are taken from Yeats and Eliot and Coleridge, to suggest the difficulty faced by poets as well as painters in capturing images of life.
On it’s final journey – destination – a coma –
realization, a stagnant pool of reflections,
images on fun house mirrors –
upon the walls of times passing,
it’s life diminishing, slowly, upon wings
of a sorrowful, soulful, agonizing flight
into the realms of death’s domain.
Dreams come to the midnight hour – hovering above.
Dreams fade - in quiet desperation – in twilight’s dust.
Rainbows mist, slowly blanketing, dark oceans deep.
Dreams of – depths of love, of joy, of a relationship,
all lost inside the vessel of heartache,
heartache’s pain washes over this sinking ship,
the ship of this fool and fools in love.
The dream shattered, fragmented – as is the love, lost
at the hand of indifference, of prejudiced perceptions,
of judgmental criticisms, of a belief of unworthiness
that is displayed upon the screens of a mind hiding,
avoiding – a lifetime of pain, disappointment,
shattered dreams, unattainable expectations –
the monster – created, influenced, became the food
for control, critical. judgmental indifference,
the façade of such pride, superiority, aggression.
The dreams, the love,–into Davie Jones’s locker deep-
there lay the skeletons of memories’ hope, life’s desire,
- for no other entity, no essence, no energy source
of such beauty will come along to extricate, validate,
bestow vitality, resurrect, breath life back into
that which was dead and now drowning.
Oh, if it could only be shown, there is more than one,
shown that two can be as one in their separateness.
If only the deep, dark, shadows would give up, give in,
relinquish their control, release the anchor,
the chains that bind, that weigh you down.
The lungs of this Love, are filled with dew drops.
Suffocating from an unloving, uncaring, uninterested.
indifferent body, ( water the mother of this life, influence long gone ) oxygen it’s name - it’s father -rusting it’s hinges, doors no longer open
for this child loved, for the spirit,
the soul of dream’s destine - to love – seem not
to be able to bring life to this dead soul – adrift.
Shun the dreams essence and life drowns.
Shun love’s embrace – energy becomes less then static,
static becomes loves death - death by electrocution -
a shock that stills the heart that loves.
Love is dying at the hands of “ I do not want ! ”
Soon the day approaches when Love, will not want
what the hands of, reach out for – emptiness
will be all that fills the world of superficiality.
In the end, the aesthetic pictures, points of view
will be nothing more then dust in the winds
howling through the empty spaces
- once beautiful Autumn Green Eyes.
B. J. “A” 2
May 27th 2008
Why We Will Never Say Hello or Good-bye
By Ingrid Showalter Swift
Rake your fine fingers across my tender lips...
waiting with the hunger that years have made.
...Do you still hear me?
I am off in a land of daisies and flowers, of many colors.
I walk down sandy paths of pale soft skin... that I imagine
The water-butter beneath my finger tips
is your skin as well
and I look out across a far away horizon and know
you live there
breathing on, in unison with arms open to the sky
You beam as the sun... I weep as the waves.
I ache and bend and cry out in labor pain
There is no separation... but the heart still seems to seep
I can see your eyes
and in my eyes still dark and far away
...you drift quietly on a raft bobbing in a safe cove
The night still shifts to the wetted calm of us from time to time
and I know the trees and dogs can feel us moving
beneath the surface, like mermaids
Our tails are webbed jewels of gold and myrrh
Our fingers are intermingled... our cells combined...
Our torsos are sleek and clean
We separate... dip and dive like porpoises...
They know... I know they know... and hear our ever calls
and dive for us
in the still of twilight’s dancing diamonds
Why not? I cry... but know all too well the answers
Because there are flowers on our paths
and children playing in the skin of the sand
and we are one in our purpose
and one in the words and one as they fly over head - wing to wing...
As autumn climbs the hill to winter...
we will be in the flickering light of fire side
and the warmth of the soups that brew
and are handed one to the other
and we will ever be in the sawdust
and in the creation of anything new
and in time as it flows back and forth with the tide
Nothing can ever sever us from the ants
and the shells
and the mail that arrives in the mail box
Do you know that we are only a car ride away from forever?
Do you know that we are nothing more than one phone call apart?
...just seven numbers apart!
and it will remain the distance of forever because we know
how fine the sand feels between our toes
how smooth the wind blows over our wet torsos and white sails
and how water splashes into tiny beads of light at the bow
and how the tree grows
and how the stone feels from the inside
We will remain alone and surrounded by love
...because grass is green
God! How I love you!
Tell me again that you know... tell me... call me... tell me
...that it is real... that you can hear me
that I am the same as the child beneath your palm
loved ever, unconditionally
and you are proud of who I am and who I am becoming