The familiar smell of smoke
Wafts from my daughter’s bedroom.
I find her cross-legged on the bed,
Teddy bear at her side,
Red hair almost hiding
The concentration on her bowed head,
Eleven year old fingers
Furiously scorching words across paper,
Firmly in the grasp of inspiration’s fire.
I’m torn, part of me wishing
To tenderly stoke those new embers,
Another part wanting
To extinguish that flame,
Knowing the difficult
And sometimes frustrating path
That lies ahead of her.
Instead I silently close her door.
This fire is not for me to control.
~~~~~~~~ This poem was inspired by a prompt from Poetic Bloomings asking for poems about fire.
1 comment:
How neat that your 11-year-old daughter also writes! I hope one of my grandchildren picks up the pen. Nothing would make me happier. It IS a frustrating path, but SO worth while.
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