by Brooke McLain

The breeze dances in, kicking up tendrils of red hair.
Little hands reach up and grab the strawberries,
Red juice soon paints her lips as she takes a bite.
The maternal call floats on the air and quickening steps soon follow.

The wind flows in, ruffling a strawberry mane.
Hands dotted with freckles reach out in vanity,
And soon red paint smears appear in the reflection.
An angry shout, inconsiderate and unfeeling, goes ignored.

The air rushes by, bringing sweet endearments to ears behind ginger curls.
Bare hands accept the obvious declaration.
And red petals continue to decorate the vanity for weeks to come.
The loving voice is no longer close but accessible with a speed dial.

The typhoon hurries by, eager to get on their way.
Weary hands reach out to stop them as an auburn curl gets tugged.
A Band-Aid soon eases the gushing red,
The loving voice sympathizes over the brown stains.


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