The Sensibilities of the Smallest Nesting Doll
I was a child
of cool-patterned skin
Nesting doll in winter attic
Layers of paper-mache
In a frosted cocoon.
I gazed at lightning windows
While the others wept at darkness
My mouth was kissed by thunder rumbles
As my unshaken palms soothed trembling walls.
I knew the transience of playgrounds, fast friendships
That only spanned sandboxes, ending with setting sun.
I saw fate as fact in action: three dogs, then eldest left.
Mortal math, quick tears melted into matter-of-fact.
Dense glue decayed under hurried paint when
Spring discovered gold in the sun. Paper
Cracked hairline fractures until I
Burst out and began to bloom.