I wrote her a letter, perfectly polite
Inquiring if maybe she possibly might
Now that she’s, well, not quite so terribly young
Help clear up a question that’s horribly hung
In the air like a unsung song wanting to soar
To an eight-year-old’s ears who can’t wait any more

I wrote her a letter, imperfectly trite
From a fifty-year-old feeling dreadfully slight
Drifting light down the decades, casting around
Drowning in dapples, sinking in sound
But as boundaries break down, she’s over four-score
I’d love to discover the colour she wore

As she opened my letter, implausibly bright
That I wrote between twilight and tumbling night
With a warning of writing inspired by her flows
I slipped in some poems and purply prose
And a bracelet of fake amethyst I suppose
So she’d honour the outrageous oath that she swore

To a curious kid with a wish to explore
And get answers to wisen his whimsical core