The carpet itches slightly beneath her small form as she stares up,
Like a doll in music box,
Dumbfounded, dancing forever in the palm of someone’s hand.
At the waning crescent outside--
An old moon.
The only thing bright enough to shine through the smoky winter clouds
as small snowflakes silently waltz and flurry to the ground.
The little girl thinks
it’s the most beautiful thing
she’s ever seen,
And though the fire isn’t quite strong enough
to warm
her little hands,
She knows she’s at home in this place.