There is laughter
when they think of all they
were supposed to be, all corseted
and silver-spoon fed with feet
crammed into ridiculous shoes.
Here, even the steeds are unshod
and trail-trod, mudlucious in their
gorgeous freedom. This forest is
flush with both silence and song.
Here, they choose.
To dance alone under the stars.
To raise ungloved hands to sky.
To be caressed by breeze and kissed by moon.
They’re wild things now, these
wayward rogue princesses. They’ve
got minds of their own and treehouse
thrones and they’ve grown quite fond
of finding themselves silly
with river stone skipping
and dragon races.
Their faces are bare as the day they
were born, sunworn and shining with
glee. They’ve built homes and be
-friended gnomes and learned to grow
their own gardens, all brambled and
tangled and sticky with berry juice
and a loose caterpillar waiting for
There has been a mass cancellation
of all balls, royal edicts and decrees.
The parents and the princes are
getting used to it, by degrees. Some
-times they are allowed to visit (if
they wear their dungarees), but
they’re always sent home at moonrise.
That’s when the shenanigans begin,
Just a normal Wednesday again, over at Poetic Asides. 😉