I actually wrote this poem when I thought the poem was about playing and hadn't read Ms. Ireton's poem. I inadvertantly grabbed two words in the poem that I didn't even know existed given that I hadn't read it yet. I guess I was meant to be writing this semi-autobiographical poem.
Running through purple clover
Marie and her friends find secluded
shelter behind a cluster of Oak trees.
Little hands placed in pinafore pockets
struggle to pull mini dolls and furniture
previously hidden from prying eyes.
Names like Macy, Lacy, and Rose
come from cherry red tongues
while their minis are provided
leaves, bark and wispy grass houses.
The little girls and their minis
sip a bit of lemonade, eat a bite
of crumbled pink sugar wafers at tea.
A shrill sharp ring
pierces the laughter
of the little girls.
"We must run
we'll be late,"
20 minutes of fun
then mind numbing numbers.
Recess is over.
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