by Ethel Mortenson Davis

 We dropped her off
 after the Christmas program.
 Snow was on the ground.
 The night was cold.
 We waited, with
 our car running,
 for her to get inside.
 instead of going
 in the front door,
 she scurried up
 a wooden ladder
 that was placed outside
 to an upstairs bedroom.
 Faster than a blink of an eye
 she went,
 faster than we ran up                
 our own stairs at home.

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Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry

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