snarled locks with a weary onyx curl
a tiny finger curls into my hand.
quiet noises define this little girl
and we're brushing through a magic land
and hair, climbing trees to find repose.
poke the rabbit in the dirty cage
to pass her hours alone i suppose
but the hours play slowly on her stage.
still and sticky- faced she sings to me
twirling around in holey tights-
grateful for an audience, a place to be
i hold her close to erase her plights.
not a boy and never lifted to first
she's far too young to feel the jabs,
too naive to recognize the hurt.
i hope one day she heals the scabs.
i pray for her on this quiet holiday.