Friday, February 14, 2014

Ice Angel (for C)

Little girl didn't catch many breaks.
Except when she was hiding
under the house.

There, she could smell the cobwebs 
speaking to the dust 
in her dolly tea-cups.

She hid a while behind a man.
Until she learned
what she now preaches:
Don't drink the Kool-Aid.

She took children no one else wanted,
and spun worlds around them.
When they grew up, she didn't stop
spinning and twirling.
She took the ones that couldn't walk
that couldn't talk
that wouldn't sleep.

She makes mint tea
from candy-canes,
but plays hard-ball
with bureaucrats.

She opened up a shop,
where half the town 
met to chew the breeze.

Wish I could wave a wand
to sort out all of her 
serendipitous thingamabobs,
antique plates and jiggety-jogs.

No can do.

But I would give her a suggestion:
put up your feet, you stubborn Cherokee,
close your eyes, and rest a bit.

If all your children
gathered,
holding hands
around your chair--

we'd form a 
medicine wheel,
of many colors.

Imagine 
that.

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