The Little Poet

The little poet,
That didn’t know it.
Will she go far,
Or will she blow it?

I’ve rhymed this rhyme for many years,
Through sun and storms, smiles and tears.

I don’t remember where it came from,
But it keeps the rhythm, a beating drum.

It takes me home, then beyond the brink,
It gives me pause and time to think.

It reminds me of times not long ago,
When I still had such a ways to grow.

When I was small and careless, free,
My thoughts surrounded what I would be.

The choice to fly or to decay,
Grow up, grow down, or the sides give way.

My fear is that she would condemn,
My roots and the love I have for them.

Would she look at me and appreciate,
The twist and turns and whims of fate?

Could she see across our great divide,
Would she understand my wild pride?

My accounts of life tend to amaze,
But is this far enough to win her praise?

Something inside says… further to go,
Time to fly from this meager plateau.

So off I run, adventures await,
I’m bound and determined to fill this plate.

I’ll heap it high so she can see,
The gifts, the joys bestowed on me.

And when I die she’ll smile and say,
Welcome dear friend, you found our way.

~ Alexandria Englander-Tuttle