“Draw,” she says and stares at me,
As I sit with pen in hand,
Then looks again at her own work
Which I never understand.
She's young enough that when she draws
She only makes lines and dots.
Yet somehow these small streaks and points
Are able to hold her thoughts.
“This one is Mom. This one is Dad.”
She explains them all to me.
But without her kind and helpful words
This truth is one I cannot see.
And yet here I sit with my own
Lines and dots across the page
And hope that through them light has shone.
May they act like a window
And nothing like a cage.