Starry Dreamy Nights

Little Forest

"But I don't understand,"
were the words of a daughter
to a mother who took her plight
on one cold, winter twilight
A life's pillar, out of sight.

"But I don't get it!"
whined a young girl
to a story vaguely told
of that daughter born in winter
whom in spring got wiser, old.

"But soon you will, little one,"
A pact spoken and written bold
Clear promises proposed.
To that daughter and the young girl
filled with conundrum, as opposed.

But alas, life isn't fiction
it is harshly far from reel
For while the daughter had a wise mother
that young girl, only I,
to depend and let feel.

Now what must I tell this young girl
whom from what she've seen despised?
To have witnessed the arid daughter
in a journey, a cinematic setting
of what this reality is like?

How must I put so simply
That this life isn't like most
where it's spring tomatoes, gags and cries
For it's real, it's hard, it's dry
Like that of winter persimmons.

That the daughter was only fortuned
to have fin'lly, one autumn renewed.
But unlike she nor her mum
None of us were fully golden
to decipher the crux of adulthood.

"But why call it a little forest?"
Like you, I mutely inferred.
Forgive my silence dearest sister,
But an hour and a quarter nor being your elder
Does not allude that I too, understood.