There was once a shaggy child who dreamed
Of pink and white pinafores and
Sweetly starched crinolines of another time
She cried too easily
Who made this annoying child?
Who could be a friend to her?
Such a scruffy thing with holes in her shoes
Square peasant hands
And far too angry
Speaking in tongues
Privy to cinemascopic visions of
Each and every lunatic angel
Was it a blessing she conjured her name from the wind?
What landscapes did she wander when she grew to be a woman a fury a bird a lover
Mother a woman whose mind drew blanks drew pictures grew tomatoes grew old
Not so old she resigned
She knows all mirrors are traps set for fools
And she is not broken yet
Not bent or beaten
With eyes like a hawk
Seeing through walls and floors and
Children love the child she is
Does anyone notice where she goes?
One curdled lumpy old
Like a mule
Like the devil himself
That much I can tell you