MY DAUGHTER’S QUESTION

i picked up my daughter.
she was nine that day.
we went to the millcreek mall.
i bought her a CD walk-man
and an outfit.
then we left.
but on our way to drop her off,
she said, “Why are the clouds dirty?”
i said, “i really didn’t know,
but maybe it was God washing his hands.”
it’s eerily for sure,
but it’s folklore.
i was only her father,
so unimportant as it may be
in the womb of her mother’s eyes.
who said that one day
that a bunch of honey bees
wouldn’t come around
in their own creative element
to administer first aid treatment?

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