Girl

Our floors are covered in hearts

and stars, tiny and glittery,

they stick to our feet, find their way

into our sheets, spilled from a bowl

where they wait to be

pasted onto a picture or card,

but usually she says

they are food, the hearts,

for some stuffed bears, or the stars,

medicine for fairies,

their houses everywhere

colonizing the corners of the living

room, right where we most need

to step I sweep up hearts,

stars into the dustpan

but cannot toss them 

away for I know

one morning when I wake

her I won’t find

that silver dusting

of stars, that luminous

heart, wishful as any eyelash,

caught in her warm dreams.

 

Breathe, and she is flown.

 

© Virginia Bellis Brandabur