~Author unknown

 

Except for tops that spin

And books and pomes

And my father’s grin,

I like spaces best of all.

Inside, outside, upsidedownside,

Narrow spaces where I can crawl.

Inside my house

Under a chair,

Behind a door

In my lion’s lair;

Pausing, whisperlike, on a stair,

I listen, hear, and stop to see,

And no one ever knows it’s me.

“Hush,” says my mother.  “Is that a mouse?”

When it’s only me, hiding in my house.

My clothes are space, too:  a shirt,

My pants,

My socks,

A dress,

A skirt,

And in my shoes, below my clothes

Are spaces there

For

All

My

Toes.

Outside, my spaces are things that grow:

A tree,

A bush,

A hill of snow.

(Except for rocks, that, as I grow taller,

Seem to shrink and grow much smaller)

I listen, hear, and stop to see.

And no one ever knows it’s me.

“Hear that?”  They say!  “A hair, a bird.”

When it’s really me, the noise they’ve heard.

But my very favorite space,

Behind my nose,

Behind my face,

Above my ears,

And past my tears,

Way in and back beyond,

Where I sort out my thoughts,

And sighs,

And shouts,

And cries,

That is where I like to be

Because I know that’s really me.