Tuesday, March 07, 2006

The Fir Tree
Six years old
Apron of spring green,
Stiff dark petticoats beneath.
The breezes bade her
Curtsey to me.
Bottle-brush fingers
Tickled my face.
Her skirts brushed the grass
As she dipped and swayed.
Bare toes dug
Into cool, black earth.
She admired her shadow
And smoothed her skirts.
(Her sisters scolded
Her teasing ways).
But I could see
She just bristled with joy
For all of being such a
Stiff little maid.


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