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Click hereThe fog behind the door's too full of feet
that shuffle, sway, stamp, prance or prattle past;
I will not venture out upon the street
but safely stay inside - the fog won't last!
I'll build a Spanish castle on the floor,
put on my gown and call my jesters in –
I'll put it pat to barricade the door,
admission only to my next of kin.
The letter-loophole gives upon the world.
I watch the trouser legs as they drift by,
unseen, unnoticed, lying snugly curled –
I think they'll start and tremble when I cry!
Those steps are different – dad is home from work!
He turns the key and lifts me to his chin –
his beard is full of diamonds from the murk
but he's back home! The fog just didn't win!
I used to worry about my dad, too, when he wasn't home, and can distinctly recall the relief I felt when he finally did get home each day. I do it now with my own family. These days, I wonder If I was channeling my mother...
You evoke the emotion of a little girl very well, here!