He ran away from school,
Red-faced like the result.
It never was the failure
But weariness of insult.

When he rushed inside,
His mother began to cook.
For a sweet smell in air,
She stepped out to look.

Walking towards his room,
She stopped at the door.
Talcum from her dresser,
Now covered all the floor.

To avoid eye contact,
Through mirror, he looked.
Shocked by powder puff,
Silently waiting, she stood.

“You failed another test!”
“Even dove you couldn’t spell?”
She hoped to see his best,
With anger now she swell.

Invisible under the talcum,
was a paper on the floor
deftly cut into a figure
whose spelling he wasn’t sure

Holding it by two corners,
With fingers small as rhyme
Out came a shape whose edges
Were as crisp as sunshine.

Without a haste he hove,
The cutout of talcum dove.