She is smiling now, as she holds the flower.
Its yellow iridescence reflects off her face,
Giving her the appearance of a child’s picture,
Sun, smiley face, rays of light. That’s her.
In the distance I can see smoking chimney tops,
A chill in the air, wind-blown plumes of grey,
Juxtaposed with her reflected glory.
But she holds the grey in her eyes,
Not cold—just flat metallic, no sun there,
But oh, her smile.
My attention goes back to the picture,
My little girl, her painting of it all.
Smiley sun, smoking chimney.
But there is a difference. That smoke.
It’s not going the right way.
She drew a flag, a bright red one.
It sits on the front lawn, it a verdant green.
But that flag, it’s fluttering in a breeze,
And that breeze is not giving deference to the
Smoke. It stubbornly blows the opposite direction.
It’s her all over. Contrary, sunny smile, smokey eyes
But the scene doesn’t fit. Sure, there is combustion,
She exudes the heat, I feel it too. Ah, but that smoke,
It’s hiding something.
But I’m distracted, I glance back at the picture.