Coco

It’s morning in Paris, 

and the city still sleeps, 

though the sun has long risen 

and the cat has long been stretched in the light 

that washes over the quiet courtyard. 

When I think of the color green, I think of the trees behind my school. In kindergarten, when kids were cruel and words hurt more than sticks or stones, the trees were there.

Why can the wind

Be blowing

That piece of grass down

One moment

And not the next?

There’s a scientific answer

I bet

And usually that’s what I’m looking for.

But it felt poetic that way,

Remember the girl?

She’s in second grade,

Maybe

Blond brown curls

Blue green eyes.

She’s sitting on the top metal pole of the fence

Chipped green paint

I want to see fields

Of girls

Standing tall to the sun,

Their imperfections

Shined upon the brightest,

Their souls sparkling