Sarah stood in the mountain creek
Five years old, your first fishing trip. Do you remember?
We used marshmallows from our picnic for bait
Because you couldn’t kill the worms
Blue jeans rolled up to your knees
Your toes rested on a mossy rock
The cool breeze kissed your short fair hair
And freed a few strands that were tucked behind your ears
Your golden brown hair reflecting the sun,
The icy water swirled urgently past your ankles
A tadpole grazed your toe, and you giggled, the sound of fairies playing
Wrinkling your little freckled nose,
Unashamed in your delight
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