Morning comes

and sunlight shatters her placid sleep.

Six years old, and she dreads the dawn

to awake in the family

where she’s told she doesn’t belong.

The cold morning air bites

at her tiny toes and fingers

as she reaches

for comfort,

which lies just beyond her grasp.

 

Hot afternoon air

scorches

her dark brown hair:

a reminder that she’s not the dainty beauty

her parents wanted her to be.

Six years have passed

but at last

she’s felt

the brush of a comforting touch

from a loving Father,

One who will not misuse

or abuse her.

 

And O, how she longs for the day

to be where she knows she is

deeply and surely loved.

 

As afternoon ages,

hot, stinging winds melt

and eventually fade,

though mom’s stinging words are

harder to ignore.

Heartfelt,

Steelcore,

Plucking strings

of my soul.

Cold tones,

Misuse;

Can’t feel

Anymore.

…until…

 

Warm and gentle

evening breeze

now caressing

her  cheeks.

Melting the ice from morning,

                which had encased her.

Cooling the burn from mid-afternoon,

                that had wounded her.

Soothing, healing

evening breeze.

 

This is her Father’s touch:

A gentle kiss upon the cheek,

A soft whisper in her ear,

                one of hope, and not fear.

A loving hand to cradle her,

                and not dismantle her,

                combing through the tangles

               of her exquisite brown hair.

 

All faith,

All hope,

All love

Exhale

In one breath:

                in the evening breeze.