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