Whether the poem makes sense to me or not I just love the imperfection of this donkey, the colour and disproportionate body, the light gold wings…..angelic almost.
She said the head was too large, the hooves too small. I could clean my paintbrush but I couldn't get rid of that voice. While they watched, I crumpled him, let his blue body stain my hand, I cried when he hit the can. She smiled. I could try again. Maybe this is what I unfold in the dark, deciding for the rest of my life, that donkey was just the right size. By Naomi Shihab Nye
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