Piles of dead leaves
dance around my back yard.
I wish I was dancing to “Margaritaville”
with Michelle on Ft. Myers Beach instead.
The sand was our dance floor
and the waves kept time.
She was a sprite, new and innocent
frolicking in the foam.
The sunset winked at our silliness.
She was perfection:
whipped cream on butterscotch pie,
twinkling like an angel.
I wish I was on that open beach again
swirling her around.
This isn’t a poem about a little girl, though;
it’s a poem about the magic of childhood
and how we can all capture it
by dancing barefoot in the sand.