She’s a glutton for punishment phraseology graffiti and grace.
She’s coming over to your place with some fingerpaints and a smile.
She’ll walk 1,000 miles and then cha-cha-change things up a little and ska her way home. She’s roam -ing about the country in bare feet and complete denial.
She’s wild. And wily. And moon-mad and wobbly about the knees, fingers splayed to grasp inelegant pens and the hopeful hands of wayward friends with funky names.
She’s claimed her baggage and declared her war.
There are wor(l)ds worth fighting for.
:: In May, she writes on Wednesdays, at least. Maybe. We’ll see.
They were just minding their own fiery business, see, and we were sort of waiting in the wings, wee faeries and (wayward) princesses with bare feet and no further need to please the king.
If it please the court (and you judgmental sorts), they’re cuter up close than they look in the sky. We tried to resist that embered breath, but it was no use. No excuse, but that’s that.
No pause for claws, no scare of scales. Even their tails are more winsome in the light, bright with turquoise and jade, a sway of sapphire. A swish of scar -let sun.
Come, we’ll introduce you. Though it may confuse you to know it’s a friendship carved of trust and trees, a breeze of winter snow; no matter when the forging’s done, this love affair has just begun.
:: In April, she poems. Sometimes there be dragons.