Except for tops that spin
And books and pomes
And my father’s grin,
I like spaces best of all.
Inside, outside, upside downside,
Narrow spaces where I can crawl.

Inside my house
Under a chair,
Behind a door
In my lion’s lair;
Pausing, whisper like, 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

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.
~Author unknown


(photo:  White Shar-Pei Puppy in Box ca. 1996)

2 comments on “Spaces

  1. LightWriters says:

    Delightful, Jeanne! 🥰

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