At five

all criticism is welcome

At five, I used to run after her feet

Which were always faster,

Containing in that fragment of a path

the whole world.

The forest blurred, the green speeding

Beside me, her steps scattered

Light which turned the stones

I was meant to trip over

Into heartbeats,

So I could run faster,

With my prints falling

Perfectly into the contours

Of hers,

so that our traces together

would grow into

a stronger silhouette,

a crooked dappled shade

of splashed Pollock laughters

that might seem chaotic 

to others, but to us,

to us, they proved that

we are headed 

ahead,

towards 

Becoming.

So, I would  run, you see, as mad as I could,

With the wind trapped in my open mouth,

and my feet obedient to that frantic trot

in the hope that I am just fast enough

To catch that cropped out piece

 

of summer path,

Which lost of sight meant losing the world

But at every turn, she gave it back

With her feet growing roots

Waiting for my small shoes

To walk their growth

To a blossom.

 

Ah, at five, my size was so small

In comparison to her enormous heart,

Which branched out to give life,

That I was nothing short of the idea

To grow bigger in being like her:

An endless run towards something better,

Those rhythmic paces with the sound

Of summer chanting, perhaps the birds

Inside of me, that sang on her mouth

This blooming laughter that one could

Hear in the way she stepped

And scattered sun.

With splashes!

 

So, I ran, five, with bruised knees

and intact trust in horizons,

reckless and vulgar,

cotton-picked longing

collaged over long summers,

patches of laughter exploding 

in thunder that couldn't wait

for a brighter prospect

to burst into being,

perhaps self-destructive and selfless

enough to be her mother,

and she, oh, she was so

unaware of how

tender

her personal thunders

would come down to

being a daughter.

Cloudless.

Yet, sometimes was quite the opposite.

She ran, five, a hundred times

Fallen and crawling

Her birds all wounded, yet

Drawing

A bright

Aztec morning,

Where I became her,

Running.

 

Ah, at five,

I am a daughter

And she is a mother,

five, full of laughter, becoming

 

Reviews

[Steven]

For one, I like it because it's in the shape of a tornado... ;)

Some lines were just breathtaking:

'her steps scattered
Light which turned the stones
I was meant to trip over
Into heartbeats,'

and..

'Which loss of sight meant losing the world
But at every turn, she gave it back'

and..

'the sound of summer chanting ...the birds
Inside of me, that sang on her mouth'

and..

'she was so
unaware of how
tender
her personal thunders
would come down to
being a daughter.
Cloudless.'

Really, really liked this, Marri.

[Marri]

Thank you, Steven, what you say is much appreciated as always!

[Nick.B]

Interesting piece, love it so far, one of my favorites here at wc, maybe we all need to be at five again, when life was simple, playing outside all day, sleeping all night (if our five year old selves can see us now, they will beat us up for good....)anyway great poem

[Marri]

thank you, Nick, I find it very hard to write something so positive, I fear that it is out of rhythm, and not in a good way...but i find consolation in your words ( so encouraging and kind) Thank you :)