Speaks more than her lips
Wondering how can this ever be...
She cannot speak like you and me
She speaks in the special language of God,
Greeting me, each time, as I walk through the lane,
She bids me to stop by and play some little game,
My watch has other plans for me though,
My feet refuses to participate,
She knows my mind quite well,
She nods a merry farewell,
Holding my hand,
With her tiny fingers,
She walks with me to the end of the lane,
Beyond this point,
Lies the busy road,
The traffic snarl,
The hustle and bustle,
As I get mingled amidst this lost crowd,
I look over my shoulder...
She is standing there still,
Waving me a brilliant farewell.
(This poem is dedicated to the lovely, frail, spirited, but nearly speechless, girl, I happen to meet every day.)