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(A poetry exercise taking the first line of a published poem and creating your own poem in 10 minutes, minimally revised)

Small as a fly bump, the little voice

rose up from the tiny bed where she lay,

a night spent at grammy’s house

where grampy lived, too, in his gruffness

and scratchy face when he scooped her up

to his shoulders and whisked her off to bed,

setting her lightly down, like a bird settling

on a limb. And the story was told in a voice

loud, then soft and loud again, his voice

the voice of the animals in her favorite book,

the one she’d brought from home, an old friend.

And her voice rose up where she lay,

a little voice, small as a fly bump,

and her arms encircled his neck as she pulled

him close, gruff and scratchy, the smell

of the forbidden chocolate they had shared between them;

“I love you ... goodnight,” and she lay back down.

Turning off the light and pulling the covers tight,

“I love you, too,” he settled down next to her bed

till the little voice, small as a fly bump,

turned to the gentle snores of childhood.