My Little Gladiator

My little gladiator just came from the garden,

that amphitheater where she contends against the birds and insects.

Her sandals’ straps twisting up her legs as the English Ivy winds up her beloved Maple tree.

The standard issue net is long gone;

she’s protectively scattered it over her blueberry bush.

Her fingers are clean of any blood;

how tender she was with those tomatoes before I quashed their spherical form.

I can't see her eyes underneath her helmet, straw and wide brimmed.

I’m sure they are glinting as she contemplates new strategies against the sun;

I hand her a bottle of magical lotion.

My little gladiator rushes back into garden,

and looks over her shoulder to see me through the kitchen window.

My thumb, covered in red sauce, points ever upwards.