The Little Inventor
There once was a little girl
Who invented a time machine.
Sitting underneath her pine tree.
She clanked the parts together
Screwing a bolt in here
And hammering the metal down flat.
No one would believe her
Except something was different
The day that she came back.
Her voice had changed
Now soft and quiet.
And her eyes had aged, too.
Neighbors whispered, “problems at home.”
Her distant parents didn’t know what to do.
Teachers would advise private school,
Doctors peddled medicines,
The little girl just sat calmly, staring lightly
Awaiting more problematic comparisons.
She saw this day, the days between
The days before.
Wearing an uncomplicated smile
Daydreaming, breathing
Of the memories at the shore.
She kept growing up, growing older
Almost surprised with every year.
Lovers tried to learn her
Family always concerned with her
As she lived a life free, and without fear.
She saw her parents die,
And bore many children.
She loved, and loved, and loved
With abandon.
Yet, only the moon understood
How she circled ’round and ’round
Admiring and witnessing
Watching and waiting,
But never really feeling
Her feet plant in the ground.
Without questions and patiently present
Dancing in her favorite dream.
Reliving and rendezvousing with
Familiar faces, in slightly new spaces
Projecting from her mind
Onto a private movie screen.
A once young time traveler
Now faded and aging into her foreshadowed scenery
Elasticity leaving her once supple skin.
Lovingly longing out the window at the pine tree greenery.
Why did she come back to this life, one might wonder?
The stars sang of exaltation, relief of recognition
The moon now sighing at the poetry of her rendition.
She jumped in puddles,
Kissed a doe on the nose.
Sang so loud her voice gave out
And smelled an evening primrose.
Now standing at the foot of her shore,
Awaking as the little girl once more
Under her pine tree,
On Earth’s loving floor.
Purpose and Prose 