Children Are Straight Shooters

A tiny girl climbs into a granny's lap,

elbows and knees everywhere at once.

She presses sticky fingers to her cheeks

to trace today's extra lines,

soft lines that are instantly declared beautiful

— only a child's honesty.

Mellowing, she leans on her shoulder,

whispering, don’t tell the moon I was here.

It gets jealous if I visit nightly,

the moon never says goodbye.