Arranged Until Gone

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Arranged Until Gone

We arranged the shapes,
my five year old and I.
She at the beginning of her elementary pages
through points to triangles
while I regularly left the comfortable circle.

As for triangles that fit into square boxed lines,
we needed two to make a square.

She counted sides of rectangles,
two long and two short.
My shortened thoughts fit neatly into
a small square that started in a simple circle
then elongated as time went on.

Labeling the figures, we both colored them.
Corners, sides, sorting, counting until organized.
I enjoyed the colored figures more and more
just as she did learning them.
Some could say they were going blind
when they couldn't see me well.

I even wanted the colors to fit with the shapes.
Each day patterns were made and felt just the same.
My image was disappearing as I worked.

We arranged the boxes; squares to rest inside each other
starting with the smallest and ending with a great big box.
"Mommy this is fun". she would say.

She at the beginning of her elementary pages,
and I perfecting my rearranging for all to see
for a lifetime as I disappeared.

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A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

vickijane’s Poems (5)

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Arranged Until Gone 0
Paradox 0
Venus 0
Puffy 0
the moon 0