Elephant Park

Four going on fourteen
—excuse me, four-and-three-quarters—
she marches off with a sashay,
stops to pull up her black socks,
shocking yellow striped dress
flouncing away, up the stairs
to new levels, towers, mazes
of her own devising plus
those erected to keep us running—
dashing—gasping for the effort
but finally figuring out the swing,
the pump and pull of body—
be patient, girl, the speed builds,
and surely you’ll rise up
over and over again, singing
the beautiful song of your life.

– E Bacon, July 2, 2011