The child within me
does not ask for much-
a patch of sunlight,
a question answered with honesty,
a hand held without reason.

She laughs at shadows
and speaks to birds,
not to be clever,
but because they listen.

When I rush,
she lingers.
When I judge,
she wonders.
When I close the door,
she leaves it ajar.

She cries openly,
for small things-
a broken toy,
a quiet voice ignored.

But she forgives
before I remember to.
And hopes
long after I have stopped.

She is not gone.
She is waiting-
beneath the noise,
beneath the armor,
for the day
I remember
how to begin again.