Reading in the garden.

Enchanting, this little lady.
Delivering prose to her supposed audience;
unknown, perhaps unimportant, to my ears.

One by one she lifts the words from
their static existence on the page –
injects them with life,
meaning, interpretation.

She is unafraid of nearby ears,
Unashamed to indulge in imagination.
This has been constructed, ready for her,
To create.

The child is purposeful and animated,
unharmed by ego.
But what of her harm?

Tension sweeps over and above her,
(below her when she sleeps
safe and unsound in her bed);
slices right through her.

Unsettled, she is not unwanted
but able to become unimportant,
An entertainer for her own comfort.

For now the child reads.
Removes and establishes herself
all at once.