Draped across the wooden bench.
She claimed this resting place with a collapse, yet wild.
It reminds her of the church with her mother as a child.
One foot on the ground
back and forth-against slippery peat
Her curls-released over the seat.
Bubblegum fingertips run blasé figure 8s
on her thigh
La-la-la-lee is her last war cry
Too proud to never go home
Now scared and lonely
As she is not yet grown
Staring up into the trees
To the one branch and to that one leaf
Fierce wind blows
The inevitable awaits
Clouds run the sky
It lets go.
Falls from her eye.