My Little Poet

B was sitting on his stability ball in front of a window this morning, bouncing, staring out and talking to himself while I did some house work.  After about a half an hour he said, “Mama, I wrote a song.  Do you want to hear it?” “Yes!” I answered.  He did not sing his song; he spoke it.  I would call it a poem, but he insists that it is a song:

Migration, migration.
Like a Winter vacation.
You’ll find lots of food
To avoid starvation.
But when you go on
This big migration,
Just never forget –
It’s God Creation.
And that’s migration!

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